


S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story (Vol. 2) - Side A

by grabthefish



Series: S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: A Case Of The Feel Bads, A Really Shitty Series Of Unfortunate Events, A Talk With The Doc, All Aboard The Super-Ego Express, Angst, Anxiety Blows, Baby Lassie Flashback, Bad Plans Are Better Than No Plans, Barely Violent Barfight, Being Blindfolded Takes The Blinders Off, Breakdown In The Bathroom, Breakdown On The Beach, Can't Get You Outta My Head, Captain Blabbermouth, Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself, Confused About Love, Confusion Runs Rampant, Dealing With Despair, Deducing Scary Things, Denial Is Dumb And We Both Know Better, Doing Your Job For You, Down For The Kicking, Drunken Realizations, Falling In Love Is Hard On The Soul, Gus And Jules To The Rescue, Hetero-normative Denial, Honesty is the best policy, Humor, It's Hard To Be An Intelligent Dumbass, Learning something new, Learning to Trust Again, Living The Sea Lion Life, M/M, Mama Drama, Mixtape, Mood Goes Down, Mood Goes Up, Old Crush Beats New Crush, Psych - Freeform, Romance, Season 3, Shassie, Shawn Hits A Nerve, Someone Strong Stands Up To Carlton, Spectacularly Failed Distraction Techniques, Spidey Sense, Storming In Is A Bad Idea Too, Storming Out Solves Nothing, Stubborn Carlton Is Stubborn, Tapioca Epiphanies, Text Nonsense, The Closest Thing To A Hug Without Being One That Carlton Can Get, The Things We Learn When Loaded, Unlicensed Aquatic Acrobatics, Unraveling At The Seams, Untangling The Threads Of The Past, What's It Take To Be Happy?, When Get Drunk Get Smart, When Get Sad Get Drunk, When Get Smart Get Scared, Why Do You Hate Yourself?, With A Little Help From My Not-Quite Friends, Working With The Dream Team, over it, pansexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: S3MXT: Season 3 Mixtape - set to an 80's soundtrack; the story behind the story, all while keeping as canonical as possible.When the blood rushes back to Carlton's brain, it leaves him questioning what just happened. Shawn tries to break through using logic & the boys have a post blowjob bathroom fight when Lassie's head seems like it's up his ass & not going anywhere any time soon. Carlton has a session with Dr. Foster to try to make sense of why he's been acting the way that he has & Shawn distracts himself from his feelings by taking on the stupidest case of all time. When Lassie gets framed for murder, his entire world gets turned on its head & Shawn steps in to save the day, leaving the cop with more questions than he started with.Track List:11. Shadows of the Night - 3.08 Gus Walks Into A Bank12. Losing My Religion - 3.09 Christmas Joy13. Red Rain - 3.10 Six Feet Under The Sea14. I'm Alright - 3.11 Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing15. Trust Yourself - 3.11 Lassie Did a Bad Bad Thing*Must be read after S3MXT Vol. 1 (Side B) for continuity's sake**Technical error in chpt 13 now fixed!





	1. Shadows Of The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 8: Gus Walks Into A Bank  
> ** The accompanying song is Shadows of The Night by Pat Benatar
> 
> Carlton is overwhelmed by what happened in the last chapter and Shawn tries to talk him out of a hetero-normative freakout by becoming Captain Logic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

 

* * *

 

 _I don't need time, I need a fucking lobotomy!_ Carlton thought, reeling from the experience he and Spencer had just shared. He didn't know  _where_  his head was at, nor  _why_  he was acting so erratically. He wasn't the type to have a sexual conquest in a public place, especially one with a colleague… so, what the hell?!

 _Okay, that's a lie,_ he admitted, acknowledging his past affair with Junior Detective Barry while completely ignoring his make-out session with the psychic just a few weeks prior.  _But with a man? With Spencer? What the hell am I doing?_

"He's gone now, Lassie. It's okay. You can come out now."

Though he was fairly sure Spencer hadn't meant it that way, the double entendre smacked him in the face, and Carlton blanched at the words as they bounced around his brain.

He stayed where he was, too fucked up to move.

Spencer, noticing his lack of appearance, walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, reaching out with the other; an offer to help him up.

Carlton felt his pulse race at the touch and hated himself for it.

He swatted the hand away, ashamed.

"Don't! Don't touch me."

Spencer's face fell at the sudden change in attitude; confused and a little angry, he stepped back. "What the hell, man? What's going on with you?"

"I shouldn't have – you shouldn't – this can't happen," Carlton stuttered, every reason he'd ever had for avoiding this moment rushing into his brain and throwing him off-kilter. "This was a bad idea. This wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

"How was it supposed to happen then, Lassie?" Spencer sneered, taken aback by the reaction. "Do you have a special contingency plan for your cock ending up in my mouth?"

Carlton gawked, sputtering.

"It wasn't supposed to happen at all."

Upset, Shawn clicked his tongue in disagreement. His smile faded, and though Carlton wished he would drop the subject, the look on the psychic's face indicated that his wish was no longer Spencer's command.

"Why do we keep finding ourselves in situations like this then?" Spencer asked.

"Because you're a pervert with no self-control," Carlton said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Shawn's face scrunched in a combination of hurt and disgust, a look Carlton had never seen him wear. The man straightened, an icy rage enveloping him as he processed the detective's words, and Carlton steeled himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing he knew was coming when the psychic drew a deep breath, wishing he hadn't been stupid enough to wind up in this predicament in the first place.

"Screw you, Lassie!" Spencer spat, his ire cutting into Carlton like a spear. "You asked for it! We both know it, and we both know you liked it, so cut the shit, man."

"You coerced me," he started, his deflectors flying up full force. "You took advantage; I would never in my right mind -"

"Fuck you," Spencer exploded, the man more upset than the detective had ever seen him. "Fuck you  _and_  your hetero-normative self-hating bullshit. I am so tired of being blamed for your denial, Lassie!"

"I don't -" Carlton protested, getting interrupted almost instantly.

"No. Shut your friggin' pie-hole!" Spencer seethed, his fists bunched by his side, shaking. "It's time for grown-up talk, Lassie, and since you're acting like a fucking _child_ , it's clearly not your turn."

Shocked at the psychic's outburst, Carlton's jaw dropped. But he stayed silent, too startled to protest.

" _You_  kissed me at the precinct. And you were sober when you did it," Spencer said, the truth as biting as his tone.

"I -" Carlton tried again.

"Goddamn it, Lassie! Just  _shut it_  and let me say my piece. You can go back to your cowardly delusions afterwards if I don't make any sense, okay?"

Carlton's jaw snapped shut and he nodded slowly.

"Okay," Spencer said, a little less angry when he saw Carlton agree.

But only a little.

The psychic started to pace in the small stall, his hands shoved through his hair in frustration.

The cop wished he would stop, the motion nauseating.

But Spencer continued, either unaware of or entirely ignoring Carton's discomfort. "You were sober, Lassie. Not just in the hall, but in the car, too. And the only reason you're not sober right now is because you want me just as bad as I want you. And you're scared. Which, okay - I can deal with that; I get it."

He stopped, staring straight at Carlton – straight  _through_  Carlton – seeing the man beneath the denial, an act the detective found disconcerting.

"I get it," he repeated, softer this time. "But I am  _not_  gonna be the guy who sluts it up for you and then gets turned into your verbal punching bag. I have way too much self-respect for that. I asked for your consent – I made _sure_  to ask for your consent - and you gave it."

He paused, then repeated himself.

"You  _gave_  it."

Carlton flushed, his words echoing in his head.

_Get on your knees, Spencer. Do it now._

"There was nothing dubious about your dick down my throat –"

_Just suck my cock already, would you?_

"- except for how badly you're lying to yourself about wanting it."

_I'm still waiting for you to prove you can do something useful with your mouth, Spencer._

"So, don't you  _dare_  try to paint me as some sort of predator who waited until you were vulnerable before I pounced. I made the fuck sure you wanted it, Lassie. I made  _ **sure**_ _._ "

_Get on your knees, Spencer._

"I -"

_Do it now._

"What I don't understand is why you're working yourself up like this. Aren't you supposed to be the logical one around here?" Spencer said, staring at him as if he were an idiot. "Use some damn logic."

"I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean – You're not…" Carlton trailed off.

Shawn sighed, his posture easing at the sort-of apology. "I know I'm not, Lassie."

"But there's nothing logical about this," the cop whispered, pressed against the wall, feeling small.

"Sure, there is. You have lusty feelings for me, thereby you logically act on them when opportunity arises," Shawn shrugged, rolling his neck, the touch of humor in his voice letting Lassiter know his rage had abated.

"I – maybe..."

Carlton was puzzled. He knew the statement was true, but not why, which bothered him greatly.

"You love manhandling me as much as I love groping you, otherwise you wouldn't do it so damn often, would you?" the psychic said, getting to the heart of the matter.

Much as he wanted to, Carlton couldn't deny it.

Why was it that it took being drunk and chastised for him to begin to understand himself with such sobering clarity? As fucked up as he had known the night would turn out, this wasn't  _remotely_  how he'd expected his evening to go, and he was frustrated with the fact that Spencer seemed to have inherited his mother's talent at cutting straight through to his core, even more-so by his being right.

How did he know what Carlton was feeling better than he knew himself?

"What did my mother say to you?"

Carlton looked up, shocked.

It was almost as if the fake psychic really  _had_  read his mind.

"What did you just say?"

The psychic asked again, lacking hesitation.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Carlton replied, tacitly dodging the question.

Leaning against the wall, Spencer sighed.

"You know, for such a smart guy, you can be such a dumbass sometimes."

"Hey, I'm drunk," Carlton objected, trying not to laugh at the blasé comment, his head spinning from both the tequila and whirlwind of emotion. "Cut me some slack."

"I didn't see anybody make you steal my shot," Spencer said, and to the detective's dismay, slouched into a more relaxed position - an indicator he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Even worse, the door opened again, a stranger sliding in to use the urinal, and there was nothing Carlton could do about that, either.

Hoping the man would make a quick exit, Carlton looked at Shawn and shook his head, but Shawn looked back, brattishness scrawled across his face as he continued.

"Well, I didn't!"

The man turned to look at them and Carlton shot him a glare that would've had him in prison, were it possible looks could kill. Startled, the stranger took a step back and wisely decided against washing his hands, zipping from the room with both vim and vigor.

Carlton turned back to Shawn.

"I wouldn't have had to drink so much if you hadn't been such a damn embarrassment on stage, Spencer!"

"You know you loved it, Lassie," the psychic scoffed. "You're just getting off topic. What did my mother tell you? It was obviously important."

"How do you  _know_  that?" Carlton asked obtusely, ignoring that which he couldn't deny.

The fraud laughed, gesturing to his head with his hand. "Psychic, hello!"

"Fuck off, Spencer," the cop replied casually, and failing to pay attention to what he was doing, leaned on the toilet seat, immediately pulling himself away once he realized what he'd done. "Seriously, why do you think your mother has anything to do with anything?"

"Becaaaaaause," Shawn drawled, looking smug - an expression Carlton wished he could wipe off the man's face. "Prior to talking to my mommy, you spent two years happily manhandling me with exactly zero inclination to shove your tongue or any other body part down my throat. Post mommy? Well… let's just say you taste good, Lassie."

Shawn smiled lecherously, and Carlton turned red and muttered.

"Yeah, but I  _have_  pictured my foot up your ass."

"What was that?" Shawn said, leaning in with his hand cupping his ear, pretending not to hear what the detective had said.

"I said," Carlton said, speaking up, feeling the flush creep down his neck. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who introduced tongue."

"Been thinking of it much?" Spencer snarked, sticking his tongue out in mockery.

"Bite me, Spencer."

"You wish," he replied. "Besides, that's beside the point. In fact, the point is here," Shawn lifted a finger to indicate, then another about an inch away, "and this is where you are! See?"

Carlton looked down and sighed.

He wished so very much that he had left early.

That he hadn't come at all - both literally and figuratively.

That he wasn't cornered in a bathroom stall by the man who had just given him the best blowjob of his life.

 _What is my world coming to?_  he thought in mild horror.

Spencer continued.

"That afternoon, the one after you did your last psych evaluation – you were already riled up before I got there. Why?"

"I don't know."

"I call bullshit. Don't be the cinnamon on my toast crunch, Lassie," the psychic said, and grabbed Carlton by the lapels, pulling him up the wall onto his feet. He brushed the detective off, and Carlton teetered, unprepared for the action. "Why do you keep doing this? Dude, do you really hate yourself this much?"

Carlton stumbled, the question cuffing him upside the back of his head, and he leaned into the corner to catch himself as Shawn stepped in a little closer.

"You got scared when I taunted you about kissing boys. Did you just discover that you weren't straight?" the psychic asked.

"I don't -"

"It's okay, Lassie," Shawn reassured, running his hand along Carlton's arm. Carlton turned his head to watch, envisioning the energy that made him tingle leaving the man's fingers and rushing along his skin. "Being bisexual doesn't mean anything changes about you. You're still the same Lassie as you were before."

"She said – not bi – something called pan -" Carlton stuttered, looking at the ground and feeling more vulnerable than he'd been when his pants were undone. He couldn't even begin to fathom how he had gotten himself into this situation. "Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

" _You_  kissed  _me_  at the station," Spencer insisted, pointing his finger in the middle of the cop's chest. Carlton's skin burned beneath the touch. " _You_  kissed  _me_  in the car.  _You_  also asked  _me_  to wrap  _my_  mouth around  _your_ very hard cock, to which  _I_  happily complied. So why are you still trying to deny there's something between us?"

"I don't, I can't -" the detective protested weakly.

"Can't what, Lassie? Can't be happy?" Spencer asked, eyebrow arched as he cut to the quick. "Can't bring yourself to have some fun? Can't admit you want this just as much as I do?"

"How much do you want this?" Carlton stuttered with eyes wide, terrified of the answer. " _Why_  do you want this? I don't understand -"

"Dammit, Lassie! You're super smart  _and_ incredibly sexy. You're loyal as hell, you handle a gun like no other, and those beautiful blue eyes of yours make me cream my jeans. Seriously. I need a new pair of panties with every angry glare," Shawn replied. "What's not to understand?"

Carlton groaned, his body betraying him as he sagged against Spencer's shorter frame, his arms wrapping around Shawn's shoulders at his own behest.

"I just can't do this," he mumbled against the slightly sweaty skin of the other man's neck.

"Why not?" the psychic said, catching him and pulling away to kiss him gently. "What's wrong with this?"

Carlton felt the heat begin to pool in his groin and moaned, his pleasure causing him equal amounts of pain.

He couldn't let this happen, not again.

He shouldn't have let it happen the first time.

He had to put a stop to this. Right now.

Meanwhile, Shawn licked at his lip, body pressed into his like they were glued together.

"Don't deny it, Lassie. Try it," the psychic teased, planting another barely-there kiss on the detective's lips. "We could have so much fun if you'd only let us be together..."

_Be together._

That was the phrase that did it.

Already tough enough to cope without the additional strain of feelings _,_ Carlton was freaked out by his almost primal lust for Spencer _._

The idea of an actual relationship with the man  _terrified_  him. He, the man who had taken down crime syndicates, was more fearful of the prospect of something real than anything he'd been afraid of in his entire life. He didn't even know if that was what Spencer had meant, but the thought of being out, being seen in public for who he truly was - having to admit it to anyone else, let alone himself - it made him almost hysterical. He had spent his entire adult life sure of who he was and what he wanted and now he was neither.

He was  _neither._

He just knew that these days, his blood sang whenever Spencer was around.

Knew his skin warmed against his will.

His thoughts grew fuzzy.

His heart soared.

He had hope.

Hope for something more.

A something more he didn't know if he truly wanted.

One he wasn't even sure he deserved.

He hated it.

He hated it so much.

"Get your whore lips off me!" he lashed out, pushing Spencer off him in a panic, that sick feeling creeping back in. "I'm not doing this. I don't want to be _together_ with you, Spencer. Not here. Not like this - not at all!"

Shawn hit the wall, skull cracking against the steel. He slid a little before catching himself, and dazed, he looked up, eyes ablaze with indignation as they attempted to refocus.

"Yeah, well the creamy dessert you left in my belly says otherwise, asshole," the psychic spat acerbically, his hand flying to his head as he checked for damage, tears welling up in the corner of his eyes.

Carlton looked away and snarled, unable to witness the results of his destruction. "You're disgusting. You're crude and rude and the fact that I just let you do that to me makes me sick."

All lies, but he spoke the words anyway, needing to create distance and knowing they would do the trick. He saw the crestfallen look on Spencer's face out of the corner of his eye as the words registered, Shawn's ire instantly turning into hurt and disappointment.

He hated himself for that, too.

"You're such a fucking asshole, Lassie," Shawn said, body and voice both shaking as he tried to control his emotions. "I said I'm sick of this shit and I meant it. We did it  _together_. You're just as complicit in this as I am, and you know it."

Carlton was furious the fraud in front of him kept challenging him, refusing to let him hide. It was bad enough he had to talk about this stuff with his shrink, he didn't need to be having this conversation with Spencer as well.

Or at all.

Certainly not in a bar bathroom and certainly not after  _that._

Frustration overtook him, and Carlton found himself barely able to stand, let alone think. He sighed as claustrophobia crept in, and desperate in his desire to remove himself from the current narrative, he moved towards the entrance of the stall.

"It was a mistake," the cop insisted, lying through his teeth.

"You keep saying that, but it keeps happening," the psychic fought back.

And it was true. It kept happening, and Carlton kept starting it, finding himself unable to stay away and even less able to figure out why.

They glared at each other, the silence stretching for what seemed like forever before Spencer spoke again.

"You know what,  _detective_?" he snapped suddenly, words dripping with disdain. "Take as long as you want to figure out your shit. I am so over this melodrama."

Carlton was taken aback as the psychic continued.

"I've got enough crap to deal with. You're just bringing me down," Shawn said, turning on his heel and shoving the detective aside as he stalked out of the room.

Carlton hit the wall, not as hard as Shawn had, and unnerved by Spencer's reaction, his jaw fell to the floor. He stared at the man's departure, his eyes greedily drinking him in as he walked away, like this time seeing him would be the last. But Shawn surprised him when he reached the door then stopped, his fingers barely brushing the handle, head turning to look at Carlton one final time.

Shawn's eyes were sad, his voice as he spoke even sadder.

"I tried, Lassie. I really did. But I am not going to fight your battle for you. I  _can't._  If you're too stupid to get out of your own damn way, I have to take the hint and move on with my life."

He paused, and they locked eyes, both men near tears.

"I don't want to, Lassie. I  _have_  to."

And without another word, that's exactly what he did.

* * *

 Shawn hadn't just left the bathroom, he'd torn out of the bar like a bat out of hell without a word to anyone, leaving Gus to pay the tab like usual, only this time more confused. Radiating a rare mix of rage and sorrow, he'd blown past the table, refusing to slow down even long enough to acknowledge his friends as they'd called out for him.

"What do you think that was about?"

Juliet turned, raising an eyebrow at McNab.

"No idea. Didn't you say Carlton was sick? Maybe he threw up all over Shawn."

"I don't think so…" Gus disagreed, staring at the door his best friend had just stormed through. "Shawn wouldn't get that upset over vomit. Not unless it got in his hair, and I didn't see any. Nor did the Super Sniffer smell any. It's gotta be something else."

Juliet cocked her head, considering. "You think they got in a fight?"

"They seemed fine while I was in there," McNab offered. "I mean, Lassiter shouted at me to get out, but he yells all the time, so..." he shrugged, his sentence trailing off when his wife laid a reassuring hand on his arm.

Gus knocked over his chair as he and Juliet both stood, a touch of fear and trepidation on both of their faces.

A loaded and screaming Lassiter was dangerous, they both knew. And Shawn was the most easy-going guy ever, so if he left on a warpath, something was very,  _very_ wrong. Realistically, anything could've just happened, and for the good of all involved, they needed to find out what, quick.

Gus threw some cash down on the table for their share, grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulders. He was worried that he knew exactly what had gone on and really hoped his guess was off-base, though the sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise.

"I gotta go after him. Sorry to cut the night short, guys" he said, meaning it. Up until then, it had been a wonderful time, and he was sorry to see the evening end on such terms.

"He can't have gotten far on foot," Juliet said. "I'll go see if I can get anything from Carlton, maybe pour him into a cab."

"I don't envy your job, sister. See you around."

The blonde nodded as the man departed, a worried look on her face as she watched him go.

She didn't envy her job either.

* * *

 

Gus found Shawn a few blocks away, sitting on a park bench beneath a flickering streetlight, looking out at the ocean and oblivious to the world around him.

"What am I doing with my life, Gus?" Shawn sighed as his friend approached, his voice disturbingly downtrodden. "Like… what even  _is_  my life right now?"

Gus sidled up to him, stopping in front of the bench to cast a shadow upon Shawn, who either didn't notice or didn't care.

"What happened back there, Shawn? You tore out of the bar like Hurricane Spencer. We're all worried something bad happened. McNab said Lassie was being an asshole…?"

Shawn laughed, more bark-like than human, and shook his head when he noticed that he and Lassie both reacted like angry animals when distressed. It was another unnecessary knife to the heart and the last thing he needed.

"Yeah, you could say that. Not to McNab though," he said, slowly swinging his feet beneath him, watching as the toes of his sneakers barely scraped the ground. "Lassie was just being his usual jerk-face self to McNab. Nothing to worry about there."

"So, what happened, then?" Gus asked as he sat.

Shawn groaned, wanting to revisit what had just occurred almost less than he'd wanted to hear Lassie's hateful words in the first place. It was too painful, and he couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to let it happen. He should have known Lassie wasn't past his bullshit, but he'd just been so damn excited he'd ignored all the signs. A feeling of defeat washed over him and he dropped his head into his hands, audibly wincing when injured wrist met battered skull, reminding him of both their existence and his abject failure.

Gus raised an eyebrow at the sound.

"Shawn, what did you do? Why are you hurt?" he paused, voice lowering. "What happened?"

Shawn looked at him, a dark storm raging in his hazel eyes.

"I don't wanna know, do I?" Gus asked, taken aback by the torrent of emotion flashing across his friend's face.

"No," Shawn admitted. "But I'm gonna tell you the whole sordid story anyway. I'm gonna tell you so you can tell me  _exactly_  how stupid I am and how very badly I need to move on with my life."

Gus sighed, and threw his arm around his buddy.

"How'd we get to be so lucky?"

* * *

 Juliet knocked on the door to the men's bathroom, wishing she had asked McNab whether it was a single stall situation or not, unwilling to stick her head in without the information.

"Carlton?" she called, stepping back when a beautiful behemoth of a man walked out, nearly bumping into her and making her hope Carlton had his shit together so she could go make a new friend, her relationship with Luntz on the fritz as it was.

 _Damn_ , she thought.  _I wonder what he presses?_

"Oh, sorry," the Golden God said as he stepped around her, his European accent making her weak in the knees. "You must want the other guy in there. I don't think he's having a good night."

She blinked, shaking herself out of her reverie and cursing Carlton for finding a way to suck the fun out of everything. "He's alone? The room is empty other than him, I mean?"

The man nodded his assent.

"Thanks," she said, and pushed the door open to find her partner sitting on the closed lid of a can with the stall door half open, head in hands as he muttered to himself.

"Carlton?"

He looked up and she saw his eyes were blurry, almost like he'd been crying, though she knew he'd never admit it if he were. Before he opened his mouth, she asked again;

"Carlton, are you okay? What happened?"

Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he scowled at her, and her heart broke to see it, the act reminiscent of a small child in pain. She'd never known her partner to carry such emotion before, and knew he'd hate himself for letting it show.

"O'Hara? What are you doing here? This is a men's room, get out!" he snapped at her, though she refused to take it personally. He flung his arm towards the door, obviously hoping he could shoo her away, and that she ignored, too.

"What happened, Carlton?" she asked again, softer this time as she approached her clearly miserable partner.

Juliet wanted to help any way she could. But based on the look on Carlton's face, she wasn't sure there was anything to be done. She also wasn't sure a cab-ride home alone was the best of ideas, and so resigned herself to joining him. She'd never be able to live with herself without seeing him to bed safe, even if it meant tossing him fully clothed on top of his mattress and passing out on his couch, regardless of how little she may want to.

That's what partners were for, after all, and she took a moment to congratulate herself on the cosmic brownie-points she was about to collect.

_What could have possibly happened between them to have put him in such a state?_

Carlton groaned and, clearly unwilling or unable to talk about it, buried his face back in his hands. Juliet sighed, wondering if Gus was having better luck on his end of things. She would have to call and ask him in the morning, if she managed to survive the night, that was.

"Just get me home, O'Hara," the senior detective moaned, turning a whiter shade of pale than she thought possible and making her hope he wasn't about to hurl in her hair again. Once was more than enough in a single year's time. "I just need this night to end."

Sympathizing, she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. With the other, she offered to help him up, and he looked at her in shock while flinching at the gesture so reminiscent of what Spencer had done not long before, not that she was aware of the fact.

"Carlton?" she asked again, concern etched across her face. He glanced up at her and softened at the look, apologizing.

"Sorry, O'Hara," he said, graciously taking her hand to stand. "I know; I'm the worst partner ever. Can we  _please_  just get me home?"

"Sure, Carlton," she said, trying to sound reassuring and hoping his house keys were in his jacket pocket. She really didn't want to have to search through his pants to find them, he clearly incapable of doing so himself. "Whatever you need, partner."

"Thanks," Carlton said, and looked at her pathetically as he continued, his head resting on her shoulder as they left the room together.

"I'll be fine as soon as I'm home. I just need to wake up from this nightmare."


	2. Losing My Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 9: Christmas Joy  
> ** The accompanying song is Losing My Religion by REM
> 
> Carlton spends a little time talking to his shrink, trying to get to the bottom of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

* * *

 

"I can't stop thinking about him!"

Carlton stormed into the room, stopping only at the startled look on Dr. Foster's face. He was supposed to have arrived a few minutes later than he had, but finding himself too distressed to wait, he'd rudely barged right in.

It wasn't something he did often, if ever, but because the hour only ran fifty minutes, he knew she'd be alone. Seeing her reaction, however, he realized how boorish he was being and made a note to apologize for his obtrusiveness at the end of their session. Having been raised the right way, Carlton knew to show up early - on time was late, after all - and on a normal day would have waited for the receptionist to direct him in.

If only it had been a normal day.

"Detective Lassiter," Dr. Foster said, brushing her long red hair over her shoulder as she stood to welcome him. "It's nice to see you again. To whom are you referring, exactly?"

He glared.

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly who I'm talking about."

And he knew that she did, but that she was also going to make him say it, her refusal to play games one of the many reasons he liked her. Thankfully, she ignored his brusque demeanor and moved to her comfy chair, gesturing for him to sit on the chaise across from it.

He continued to stand.

"Am I to assume we speak of Mr. Spencer?" she said, just like he'd expected.

Of course, they were talking about Spencer.

They were  _always_  talking about Spencer these days and it infuriated him. Because if he wasn't  _with_  Spencer, he was thinking  _about_  Spencer. And when he wasn't thinking  _about_  Spencer, he was paying to dissect  _why_  he spent so much of his day with his thoughts on the man.

The entire situation was stupid, and he hated the whole thing.

"Who else?" he exclaimed, cracking the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb in frustration, feeling the tension inside him build. "The bastard won't get out of my head!"

Foster ignored that outburst, too, and grabbed his file from her desk, flipping to the information she had gathered from the week prior. Carlton shifted in place, waiting patiently for her next words.

"Him or what he said?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

Carlton looked at her incredulously.

"I'm sorry, you are correct; I should have spoken with more clarity," she said, and leaned forward to directly address him. "Are you thinking specifically of  _him_  or rather is it that you're contemplating the things he said to you?"

He paused at that, wondering what the difference was and what effect it would have if he asked.

"Him! What he said; what we did! What does it matter?" the detective groaned, trying to force thoughts of Shawn's lips –  _Spencer's_  lips – and the things they had done from his mind and failing.

Trying to scrub Shawn's words and the hurt on his face from his mind and failing.

"Hmm..."

"Hmm?! What the hell does that mean?" he asked, back rigid and body tense as he struggled to stay calm. He was starting to get pissed off – was  _already_  pissed off – and that just upset him more, having hoped this session would be the thing to calm him down after a week spent raging. "I don't pay you to postulate. Fix me, woman! Get the gay out of me!"

His doctor glared at him from over her glasses.

"My name is not 'woman,' detective, but Dr. Foster, and I would appreciate it if you would use it when addressing me," she said sternly, making Carlton feel small. "Furthermore, we both know that is not what you are here for,  _nor_  is it possible."

Carlton looked properly chastened. He couldn't believe this was what his life was right now, first assaulting Spencer and now lashing out at a woman he respected. He was better this and he felt his ears begin to burn as shame kicked in, embarrassed that he had become this person.

She shook her head and tsked. "Get the gay out of you, indeed. Absolutely ludicrous."

Abashed over his outburst, and despite his plan to ask forgiveness later, he caved under her disappointed gaze. It wasn't often he felt this way and he hated the fact that ever since that night with Spencer, he'd found his carefully cultivated grip on self-control slipping.

"Doctor, I'm sorry," he said. "It won't happen again."

Foster crossed her legs at the ankle, adjusting herself to sit more comfortably, her posture indicating an acceptance of his apology.

"Very well," she responded, and left it at that while Carlton stared at his feet in disgrace, looking up when she continued to speak.

"Now, I understand that you're upset. But it seems to me that this anger is misplaced," she began with a curt nod, at which he raised a questioning brow, confused by the statement. "And although it seems your most recent incident with Mr. Spencer has caused you to regress back into a very strong state of denial, your anger in no way indicates your being broken in any manner whatsoever."

He didn't believe that, and shifting in place, asked for clarification, knowing it was a thing he needed and a thing she would give.

"What do you mean?"

"Anger can be caused by things that have made you feel shameful," she replied. "Or 'less than'. You said that not only have you never truly known your father due to his lack of presence in your life, but that your mother came out when you were fourteen, yes?"

Carlton folded his arms across his chest as if the action could deflect the discomfort he felt at the turn in the conversation.

"Yes, just after Lauren was born," he said, his temper simmering as he mentioned his younger sister. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Puberty is difficult for most young men," Dr. Foster explained plainly, setting her papers in her lap as she locked eyes with him. " _Exceedingly_  difficult for you, lacking a male role model as you did. Your ideas about sexuality were also being rewritten by those closest to you at the same instance as they were being formed, which clearly caused plenty of confusion."

She looked at her notes again, checking something before continuing.

"You were bullied for lacking a father figure," she added, her accent starting to irritate him, irrational frustration bubbling just beneath his surface. He knew it wasn't something that could be helped and that upset him too, just like the way he'd been raised and his feelings about Spencer were also things completely out of his control, much as he may wish otherwise. "Did those same people target you for having a lesbian mother?" she asked. "Do you think it's possible the shame you felt in regards to these occurrences has perhaps bled into your own feelings of self-worth?"

He looked at her, inhaling sharply at the unexpected question, his knees feeling weak and finally forcing him to sit.

"Why do you say that?"

"Fear of homosexuality tends to be a consequence of narrowly defined sex roles and rigid gender identity," she said. "In your case, having not known your father, perhaps you felt it necessary to be the man of the house before you understood the hetero-normative implications attached to doing so."

He twitched; the statement resonating far more than he wanted it to, his leg bounced beneath him as it expended anxious energy, a tick the doctor had pointed out just that past week.

"Add to that a mother who seemingly abandoned what you thought was the chance at a traditional family to commit her life to someone of the same gender and it's no wonder you repressed your desires for so long," she stated. "I imagine the fact that she - in your adolescent mind - rejected what you had thought of as a 'normal' life has made you cleave all the more tightly to the rigid constructs of your assumed heterosexuality."

Carlton stared, a stupid look upon his face though he understood her completely.

He'd always felt that something was lacking, something integral to his family unit - though, it had taken his younger self a while to realize what it was. He saw how normal was portrayed in the media, saw it daily in his schoolmate's lives, so from a very young age, Carlton had tried to fill what he had thought was a hole in theirs.

He had wanted to be everything for his mother; wanted to make sure that she had everything that he thought she deserved - all without ever understanding that she should be taking care of him instead of the other way around. It wasn't until she had introduced him to Althea and explained their relationship that he'd realized he was never likely to achieve the normal he so desperately craved.

Storming out of the house in a fit of rage and disappearing for two days, he'd hitched his way to Old Sonora, almost getting his hide tanned by Hank Mendel when the sheriff had found him wandering along the side of the road a few miles out of town just the other side of dusk.

" _Binky,"_ the old man had said, grasping the young runaway by the shoulder, the night softly settling around them. _"It don't matter none what your ma does. It matters what you do. If she's happy, you should be happy for her. We all gotta live the life we're given and we're all doing it to the best of our abilities."_

Carlton glowered, not wanting to hear it. He had run to the old sheriff for comfort and commiseration. The comfort he got; curled up on a cot in the jail cell, he held a cup of cocoa in hand, a warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders as the closest thing he'd ever had to a father called his mother to let her know he was okay.

The commiseration was lacking.

" _She doesn't care about me, why should I care about her?"_ he'd pouted, sullenly _. "It's bad enough being me without getting crapped on for mom being a big queerdo. Why can't my life just be normal?"_

" _Now, Binky, don't be like that,"_ Hank had chided.  _"Normal ain't a magic place you can teleport to, like in those science fiction books of yers. It's not something anyone has, if you really think about it."_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _Ya think this is normal?"_ Hank swept his hands around the room. _"I'm an unmarried forty-year-old man sittin' in a jail cell with a fourteen-year-old boy. If this was Kentucky, I'd be hung from the rafters - even though there's nothing wrong goin' on here."_

Carlton looked at him blankly.  _"I still don't get it."_

" _You didn't have a daddy, so it's natural to want one. And I'm happy to fill in from time to time… but this ain't normal. Me being out here running this backwater, podunk little town all by myself ain't normal."_ The old man cocked an eyebrow. _"You heard 'bout Lawnchair Larry?"_

Carlton had nodded.

" _That seem normal to you, boy?"_

He shook his head.

" _That's right. That's cuz it ain't. Nothing is - normal's just a concept that don't really exist in life, kid."_

He had let that percolate on the drive home, glad Hank had offered the ride instead of having to be trapped in a tin can listening to his mother rant at him for his inconsiderate reaction to her news. Instead of stopping him in his tracks though, the thought of normalcy being an unreachable goal had just spurred him further on down his path of silent self-destruction, making him determined to try that much harder to fix what he had thought was broken.

"This would explain why after the two most recent liaisons with Mr. Spencer, you threw yourself at both Ms. Dunlap  _and_  Ms. Guster," Dr. Foster continued, interrupting his thoughts. "You were trying to convince yourself that you were strictly attracted to women. You hurt Mr. Spencer for forcing you to consider otherwise."

Carlton squirmed in his chair, both appreciating how upfront she was and disliking how quick she'd gotten to the point.

"In finally being honest about her sexuality, you felt your mother had betrayed your chance at normalcy," she added. "That would thereby cause you to stifle your own sexual inclinations. Perhaps you feel that admitting you are not straight is the same thing as giving up on what you thought your life would be? If so, you would essentially view it the same as failure."

"I don't desire this!" he protested, overwhelmed as Dr. Foster echoed what he knew to be true in his heart. He had tried  _so hard_ for  _so long_  to craft a life he'd thought worth living, every meticulously planned action having blown up in his face but his tenure as Head Detective, the dissolution of his marriage to a woman he thought he'd loved the worst of it. But what if he'd never really loved Victoria at all? He had met and married her straight out of the academy, after all, a well-to-do wife the next thing on his personal checklist of success. What if that meant their entire relationship had been a lie, not one of hers, but one of his own devising? Could it be possible that he'd stifled his feelings because he was too scared to live a truth he'd spent his entire life repressing?

"What kind of man would want to feel like this?" he continued, near-exploding, his hand threading through the hairs at the nape of his neck to prevent it from clenching into a fist.

"Fear of homosexuality also tends to mask one's true fear of emasculation," she said softly, driving to the crux of the matter. "Considering how we live in a society that promotes toxic masculinity, many people believe that there is a direct link from homosexuality to both one's masculinity and femininity."

She paused, allowing time for the detective to process before finishing her statement.

"There really is no basis for this thinking, however."

Carlton took a much-needed moment with that.

Was it possible that his aggressive alpha male personality had developed as a direct result of his attempt to mask his sexuality? Because of his desperate desire to have a regular life? He didn't want to consider it, but with the evidence presented to him like this, it was seeming highly likely.

"Not only is there no correlation between the two, neither are compromised. Nor is one's worth diminished," Foster said matter-of-factly, Carlton's time for self-reflection cut short. "In fact, Carl Jung proved through dream analysis that conscious integration of both masculinity and femininity is a crucial aspect of psychological wellness."

He just stared at her and she stared back, until -

"So, you're telling me I'm psychologically unwell?" he asked bluntly, clearly unimpressed but knowing it was true.

Dr. Foster stifled a highly unprofessional snicker, taken off-guard by the flat look on his face and matching tone of his voice.

"Well, in a nutshell, yes. But you're still very much not broken," she reaffirmed, gathering control of herself as she rifled through her papers once again. "Now, you said that after each interaction with Mr. Spencer you were overtaken with shame and confusion, yes?"

"Yes," he answered begrudgingly, dropping his gaze to the carpet as he made the admission.

"Why?"

Carlton stopped to think before responding, his eyes flitting back up to hers at the question.

"I don't know. Isn't that what you're supposed to help me figure out?" he snapped in frustration, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, his voice softening once he realized the vehemence with which he had spoken.

"Look, it doesn't matter anyhow. It's not happening again," he insisted.

"Why not?" Foster asked him in return, refusing to let the subject drop. "Let's put the feelings of shame aside for a second. You have - on multiple occasions - expressed fulfillment in the act of the intimacy itself. And, from what you have told me, he seems to have felt the same."

Forgetting his manners again, Carlton shot to his feet, his voice cracking. "You know what - I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't really care what your stupid Kinsey scale or your silly little notes tell you."

He waved dismissively at the notepad in her lap.

Dr. Foster sighed.

"You wouldn't be here were that true, detective. Nor are bisexuality and pansexuality the same as homosexuality. Please sit down," she said, gesturing to his seat again. "We've discussed this before. The textbook definition of pansexuality is the ability to be sexually, spiritually or emotionally attracted to someone regardless of gender. Being able to form connections based on one's personality and character rather than what genitalia they might have. You  _know_  this," she stressed. "And based on what you've told me of your discussions with your prior psychologist,  _this_  is the term to which you best relate, regardless of your admittance of such."

"Well, I don't care," he said, stubbornly. "If I say I'm straight then that's what I am, dammit." Carlton ground his teeth as he reclaimed his place on the chaise, pausing before exclaiming, "And proud of it!"

Foster shook her head, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear as she addressed him.

"First of all, I would very kindly like to remind you that in these types of situations, exorbitant pride is usually a thin veneer pasted atop one's festering shame - " she said, her tone clipped, clearly nearing wit's end, " - which we have previously discussed as having occurred in your regards on  ** _multiple_** occasions."

He slouched further into his seat, wishing he could will the awkward situation away, slowly realizing that deflection was getting him nowhere and that she was in the process of psychologically handing his ass to him on a silver platter.

Foster continued.

"Secondly, I would then like to echo Mr. Spencer's query as to why you keep finding yourself drawn together in increasingly explicit manners if you are, in fact, as heterosexual as you claim."

Looking at him point-blank, she paused for effect, her gaze unwavering and unapologetic as she rhythmically tapped her pen against her papers.

"Have you any ideas?"

Santa Barbara's Head Detective glowered, a sullen look upon his face.

"Because he's a pervert with no self-control?" he offered hopefully.

"I don't believe that. You don't believe that either," she said, eyebrow arched as she held her ground. "Carlton, you may not be homosexual, but you have to accept that you  _are_  queer −"

He shuddered at the word.

"− and carrying some intense internalized homophobia, clearly due to associating aspects of homosexuality with some of the more negative aspects of your childhood. Your actions and choices should be based on your desires - your id and ego - but you seem to be basing yours off of psychologically damaging preconceived notions and letting your super-ego drive the bus instead. My job is to help you change that."

"How?" Carlton asked, feeling defeated and hoping she had a life preserver to throw his way, the raging maelstrom of emotion he was trapped in threatening to drag him under.

"Well, that's up to you," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

She sat up straighter, her look intent.

"Some people protect themselves from messy complexities by being quick to agree, but they're reluctant to explore more deeply," she said, gesturing to him with a tip of the hand, a gesture which forced him to acknowledge he'd been guilty of doing exactly that in the past. "They will sidestep suggestions - try to assert their awareness - yet will continue to lack proclivity due to the fact that though they may be  _intellectually_ committed to the idea of growth, they are unwilling to take concrete steps to promote it."

"Meaning?" he asked, waiting for the catch.

"You have to be willing to do the work to be happy."

Shawn's voice suddenly echoed in his head.

" _Can't what, Lassie? Can't be happy? Can't bring yourself to have some fun? Can't admit you want this just as bad as I do?"_

"So, how badly do you want this, Carlton?" Dr. Foster asked, her English accent cutting through to his core. "How badly do you want to be happy?"

Carlton's breath caught in his chest.

There it was.

That was the catch.

_Happy..._

He didn't even know what that was anymore.


	3. Red Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 10: Six Feet Under the Sea  
> ** The accompanying song is Red Rain by Peter Gabriel
> 
> Shawn takes on the stupidest case ever in order to take his mind off the disaster that is his love life while trying to get over his recent negative experiences with Lassie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.
> 
>  
> 
> *Sorry for the technical error. I have no idea why the story doubled and attached itself to the end, but it is fixed now.

 

* * *

 

Shawn couldn't get the older detective out of his head no matter how hard he tried.

And, oh, how he had tried.

Sadly, the psychic's go-to plan of distraction hadn't worked worth shit. His first idea - an ill-advised attempt to reignite the spark with Gus's sister Joy - had been bound to end in conflagration regardless of the result, and knowing so in advance, he wasn't sure why he had even bothered. When that had failed, the detective still lingering in his mind, Shawn had agreed to take on this ridiculous case. Having both the benefit of a pretty blonde to flirt with and the bonus of being able to placate his best friend/partner at the same time, he figured he had nothing to lose. Also, he owed Gus, who insisted he was already over their 'familial debacle'.

Shawn knew better, though; his buddy was going to be sore about it for quite some time.

Still, stupid as the case was, he  _did_  appreciate that his pal was trying to get him to rise to the challenge, both in his romantic pursuit of the attractive conservationist  _and_  in solving the murder of the sea lion. Gus had the brilliant idea that if Shawn flirted with somebody – preferably someone  _not_  his older sister – it would provide the perfect distraction to ease his woes and help him forget about the ornery lawman. It was a good idea, and Shawn was impressed with Gus for thinking of it.

His libido usually the perfect thing to distract him, Shawn was surprised by how spectacularly the tactic was failing him this time around.

Though April was pretty and the banter fun, his heart wasn't really in it.

She'd smile, and he'd remember Lassie's face awash with joy as he ribbed Shawn down by the river. Shawn had been awestruck, utterly spellbound by the glee in the detective's gaze, his blue eyes crinkling in delight as he happily mocked the psychic.

He would watch April's mouth when she tossed him back some sass, trying to figure out why he didn't want to kiss her when he by all means should. Instead, he recalled the firmness of Lassiter's lips pressed against his own - his subconscious offering up an answer he didn't want to consider.

Shawn would smell the woman's perfume and flash back to the scent of Lassie's musk mixing with faint remnants of the day's cologne; how he'd breathed him in deeply, his face burrowed in the crook of the cop's neck as his hands freely roamed.

He rifled through Labayda's desk, forcing back memories of Carlton's hands in his hair.

 _Nobody_  touched his hair. He never let anyone touch him there.

But Lassie didn't ask. He just did.

And the psychic didn't want to admit how much he had enjoyed it.

Focus pulled away from his task, Shawn remembered Lassiter's long fingers slipping though his thick mane and he shivered, his scalp tingling at the reminder of how he'd been gripped hard and pulled close.

Because it wasn't just the detective's touch that did it for him.

No, it was the slightly salty taste of sweat slicked skin. The sound of his voice as he sighed in satisfaction. The bliss on his face as he'd  _finally_  turned off his brain and allowed himself to be happy. Happy with Shawn, however briefly.

 _ **Those**_  were the thoughts that crept into his brain at the most inopportune times.

Haunted by the look of anguish Lassie had worn when he had walked out of the restroom and left the man sitting there, Shawn had been struggling to cast the image from his mind for days. He didn't think the cop had been aware his feelings were evident, but not only had they been, Shawn had seen them, their intensity something he didn't think he'd ever forget.

War-torn, Carlton's face had been covered in conflicting emotions.

Shawn knew the cop was hurting and though it was clear that Lassie wanted him desperately and hated himself for it with equal fervor, that didn't excuse his behavior in the slightest. Shawn was hurting, too and Lassiter was mostly at fault. Not completely, of course, because Shawn wasn't stupid; he realized that the situation never would have occurred had he not coerced the detective like he had. But while he despised the fact that he was partially responsible for the cop's condition, he hadn't been lying when he said that he wasn't going to stick around to be the man's whipping boy, his pain in no way negated by Lassiter's own.

As much as he hadn't wanted to, he had meant it when he said it. And the truth of the statement hadn't lessened any since the time it had been spoken. So, still struggling from emotional whiplash, it really _was_  time for Shawn to move on regardless of how Lassiter might feel about the matter.

Wasn't it?

He had made it perfectly clear after all, knowing that his opinion was the only one that could count, the cop being as conflicted as he was. Shawn had to live his life and he knew he couldn't do that if he kept letting himself be jerked around. He also knew that torturing himself with thoughts of what had happened wasn't going to fix anything… so what was stopping him?

He just wasn't sure why progression had to be so damn hard, moving on not coming as naturally as he would have hoped. Distractions were supposed to be easy, after all, yet he continued to struggle, his thoughts lingering on his lust for the lawman. Maybe he just needed a better distraction, he thought. Maybe it was time to be daring - time to attempt a feat he'd been destined to perform since he was a child.

Maybe he needed to fulfill his lifelong dream of driving a dolphin!

Shawn knew you couldn't  _actually_  drive one, of course. Really, he was hoping to stay on for a few seconds. Mostly, he'd be happy so long as he didn't drown. And though he wasn't totally sure what the punishment for grand-theft mammal was - not that it could  _really_  be considered stealing if they never left the tank - with his luck, he'd wind up in cuffs.

Which would be the absolute  _last_  thing he needed.

Mind you, if he  _did_  get caught, he might be able to charm his way into a ban or perhaps a fine, if he was lucky. It wasn't the best option, he knew, but it was better than being stuck in a jail cell for the night, Lassie one floor above waiting to chew him out for his stupidity.

A sound bounced off the aquarium walls and Shawn snapped back to attention, not wanting to get caught. He saw a beam flicker in the distance and the sound of someone coming, ran from what he assumed was a flashlight, his butt clenched and panic rising. The footsteps drawing nearer, he searched for an escape, his pulse racing as he looked for a way out. Finally, after a deep breath and a close call, he noticed the containers behind him and tucked himself into the smallest, sure the guard wouldn't bother to check, likely being both lazy and underpaid.

Getting found by Gus was another matter, however.

If anybody embodied the term  _work-wife_  more, Shawn would eat the raw fish he had just been caught holding. His buddy berated better than almost anybody, and Shawn begrudgingly gave him the bait as demanded, wondering why his bestie would claim to want him happy but deny him nonetheless.

Arm raised, ready to toss the herring to the chatterbox below, Gus was just raining all over his one-man wonder parade.

"Don't make a move!" a voice called, the light from the electric torch hitting the boys in the face.

_Fuck._

They were caught.

"Put the fish down and nobody gets hurt!"

* * *

Lassiter looked stressed.

Of course, Lassie almost always looked stressed these days.

Shawn knew high strung people always seemed to age faster and wear their worries harder, but this was something he hadn't seen on the detective before and it bothered him; somehow both tense and deflated, Lassiter's usually bright blue eyes were both sharp with mania and clouded with self-doubt.

It was an odd combination on the older man, and Shawn didn't like it one bit.

It made him wish he could help Lassie - made him wish they'd been friends enough before the incident that he could somehow help make things right. It also made him wish the word  _Rocinante_  meant something to him, or at least that he had a legitimate case to offer the detective, knowing that Lassiter needed a distraction just as much as he did. Maybe even more.

The distraction he  _did_  have to offer was  _not_  the distraction the detective needed, however, and Shawn knew it. Carlton required a reputation boost more than anything, the lack of respect he'd been getting around the office obviously wearing on him but solving the murder of a six-hundred-pound sea animal was just  _not_  going to be the thing that did it. So, aware suggesting Lassie join their ridiculous case would likely result in a trip to triage, Shawn did the opposite, desperately attempting to deter the detective - even going so far as to spell out Shabby's name and species in an attempt to dissuade the man while allowing him to retain a sliver of pride.

Of course, the stubborn man could not be discouraged and blundered his way into the investigation anyhow.

Shawn should be mad at Lassie.

He  _was_  mad at Lassie. He was pissed, in fact, though he suppressed the feeling best he could, aware his anger would only add fuel to the other man's fire. Though it may not have been intentional, SBPD's Head Detective had been a bastard as of late, far more than usual and mostly towards Shawn. The psychic knew he didn't deserve it – not to that extent (or at all, really), Lassie's lashing out caused by conflicting emotions Shawn refused to take responsibility for. Nor did he believe Lassiter deserved living in the hell he seemed to be residing in. But, as it was a hell of the cop's own creation, Shawn found himself able to muster only so much sympathy.

He knew he was at least partially responsible for Lassie's minor nervous breakdown though, and because of that, he had done his best to keep his distance, worried his presence would paint him as a target for further abuse. Neither man needed an excess of animosity right now and Shawn was unwilling to carry the weight of Lassie's cognitive dissonance; the man was being torn apart and Shawn worried he would eventually lash out, making their situation that much worse. It was something he wanted to avoid at all costs, still hoping that someday, they could heal the rift between them.

The usually straight-laced detective was slowly coming unraveled, and that made Shawn think that – in this instance, at least - he could be the bigger man. When the stress had first begun to take its toll, Shawn's spite had kicked in and he'd found Lassie losing it a little amusing, the detective clearly spiraling out of control as karma kicked in. But as Lassiter's self-torment had continued, picking up steam as his self-respect waned, Shawn's conscience kicked in, his heart breaking for a man he wished he could hate, the scene just becoming painful to watch. For everyone's sake, but Lassie's especially, Shawn needed to find a way to make it stop.

Preferably now.

He cleared his throat and the detective turned his head to look at him.

"Listen, can you get a body exhumed?"

* * *

Sneaking onto the boat was no more dangerous than any of the other harebrained ideas Shawn had talked Gus into over the years, so he wasn't sure was his best friend was balking.

They had a clue and to follow it, they had to get on the boat.

It was that simple. What didn't he understand?

Not thinking it worth his time, Shawn had resisted taking the case at first, but he had since come to find that focusing on it was the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. What that stupid was, he wasn't quite sure, but it was probably best not to think about lest thinking lead to doing. Sick of the attitude and finding that being forced to deal with emotions from all sides was absolutely exhausting, he had already been uncharacteristically short with Lassiter during the necropsy and it seemed like maintaining a balance in their relationship – whatever that was – was going to be impossible, neither man understanding where they stood.

But it wasn't exactly like he could talk to Lassie about it, sure trying was another thing he could add to the list of actions that would get him shot.

And as for the case itself, the longer he and Gus stuck around to look, the sketchier things began to seem. Finding the bullets had been no surprise - or at least, no surprise to him, anyhow - and though he hadn't quite grasped the why of it yet, he had essentially pieced things together by then. So, with multiple theories forming, Shawn raised from his crouch, startled when he noticed the culprits on their way back to the boat.

 _Shit!_  he thought, opening the hatch in the floor and shoving Gus through after a quick whispered argument, their other ideas for escape nowhere near as feasible. Sliding in behind, Shawn landed on top of his buddy, slamming the door shut with seconds to spare and dragging the netting behind him.

 _Well… this sucks,_ he sighed, reaching out to grab the flashlight as Gus squirmed beneath him uncomfortably.

The light flickered on and Shawn pointed it at the ground, scrambling to avoid detection while still looking for a lead and frowning when the words  _Rocinante_  and _Flight Plan_  became visible beneath the beam.

 _That was Lassiter's bust,_  he recalled, looking at the folder.  _The one that made him the butt of all the jokes - the one that literally got away._

He wondered how pissed Lassie would be when he realized Shawn had yet again succeeded where he had failed. It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor was it likely to be the last, but the detective was on a hair-trigger these day and Shawn was worried this might trip it. The case - which had started out as pure stupidity - had gotten  _far_  too personal for Lassie far too fast, and there was just no guarantee as to how well-received the news would be, especially with Shawn being the one to share it.

Jolted from his thoughts, the psychic heard the engine start and knew he had to act fast.

Worried Lassiter would just ignore him, he decided to text Juliet instead.

 _ **solved crime! trapped in hull of smugglers boat goin out 2 c! ;)**_ he typed, then hit send, hoping she wasn't too busy to read it.

Ignoring Gus' faux-offense to his JLo comparison, Shawn noticed Shabby's transmitter tangled in the net and moved to grab it.

Gus wiggled and whined as he reached for it, which Shawn found annoying since none of this would be happening if it weren't for Gus in the first place, it being his idea to take on this investigation to begin with. He knew the situation they were in was less than ideal, of course, but it wasn't like he had planned the impromptu snuggle with his buddy, after all. Besides, this wasn't the worst they'd gotten themselves into by far, so Gus just needed to chill.

To take his mind off things, Shawn let it wander – a technique his mother had taught him when he was a child. He couldn't quite remember what she had called it - only half-paying attention because Marissa Morgenstern had just walked by in a short skirt - but he knew it had something to do with free association and that it had worked for him before.

He chuckled to himself at the memory, thinking of how far he had managed to come and how much he had changed since then. Once upon a time, he was ogling the long legs of a pre-pubescent brace-face, and now he was taking on dangerous cases in order to stop lusting after Lassiter. Oh, how his world had turned.

Gus squirmed beneath him, rather inconveniently.

 _Lassiter…_  Shawn thought, the motion failing to distract him.

The man whose smile could light up a room. Ten rooms, as rare as it was.

Gus squirmed again.

The man whose lips promised something more when they kissed him.

Gus squirmed a third time.

The man who made him weak in the knees, even when he was on his knees.

Shawn felt his pulse begin to race at the flash of memory and he twisted, trying to break contact with his buddy before things got awkward. But Gus continued to shift around and Shawn sighed, wishing he would just relax - maybe do some Lamaze breathing or something.

Because the last thing he needed to deal with right now

(at all)

(ever)

was Gus and  _awkward_.

Grimacing, he pressed the button to turn the transmitter on, then sent another text to Juliet.

_**turn on labaydas laptop!** _

"Now all we do is wait."

* * *

 

Shawn poked his head out of the bunker, surprised to see a sea of concrete instead of one of water.

_Fuck. We are so screwed._

He ducked back below, quickly confirming with Jules what she had already known.

Minutes later, they were ready to go, a new plan firmly in place and his big ball of bullshit ready to be aimed at the bad guys. All he needed to do was convince Gus that this would work, a task he was finding much more difficult than usual.

"Shawn, I don't think this is a good idea."

Shawn sighed. "I know that, buddy. You said it like three times now."

"Well that's because it's  _not_."

He rolled his eyes at his pal. "It's fine. Why would it not be fine? It's a great plan!"

"Your plan is no plan, Shawn!" Gus exclaimed, exasperated. "You're just gonna go out there and run your mouth –"

"Which has worked before," he interjected.

"Those dudes are worse dudes than the usual dudes who point guns at you, Shawn. _Guns,"_  Gus said, enunciating the point. "As in plural!"

Shawn really hoped he didn't get shot. Gus was right in that bad guys had a tendency to point their weapons at him, but he was sure he could hold these guys off long enough. Though he was too pretty to wear bullet wounds well, his plan of no plan would never stand a chance of succeeding if he never actually did it. So, tired of bickering and before his bestie got the chance to protest further, he smiled and popped out into the open, pulling Gus up with him.

Pistols pointed in his direction, he began to talk.

Talking was Shawn's special talent, he'd found early on in life.

If you could talk, you could talk and you could talk and you could talk and you could talk and sometimes, when you were good enough, you could talk a person in circles; confuse them and gain the upper hand for a moment - perhaps long enough to do some good.

It didn't even have to make sense. Sometimes it was better not to - just bamboozle and discombobulate.

Good thing that was Shawn's specialty.

In this case, though, honesty would do the trick.

He could tell that these guys were the kind of bad guys who wouldn't feel the matter closed until they knew what he knew. Not only what he knew, but  _how_  he knew it. And if he could just keep talking long enough -

"Put it down!"

"Drop it! SBPD!"

"Stay right there!"

Lassie walked over, tucking his gun away as his colleagues put the cuffs on the culprits, a smug grin on his face.

"Saving your ass again, Spencer?" he said, clearly full of himself.

Shawn fist-bumped his best friend. He hated to burst the detective's bubble but  _was_  glad he was getting to do it with good news. And if Lassie had a problem with the fact that he was the one who had figured it out? Well, he was just going to have to get over it. Shawn planned on working with the police for a long time coming, and Carlton's inability to deal was neither Shawn's duck, nor his bottle. He was done walking on eggshells for the man and just hoped things would soon get as back to normal as they could be, all things considered.

"What are you talking about?" Lassiter asked, both indignant and confused.

"I'm helping you, "Shawn replied. "I told you, it's a two-way street."

Lassie sputtered.

"Wait a minute... how did you -?"

Shawn smiled, lifting his hand to his head.

"A little bit of this -"

He lifted the other, delighting in the irritation that crossed Lassiter's face as he did so.

"- and a whole lot of that."

* * *

April walked in on Shawn whip-creaming Gus's desk.

Gus deserved it, dragging Shawn into a ludicrous case that wound up meaning far more to him than it should have. It was ridiculous; he had stumbled across what he thought was the stupidest possible distraction from Lassiter and still wound up being led directly back to the man!

What were the odds?

Shawn looked up, and having been caught can in hand, greeted her with a sheepish smile.

She looked great, so he told her so.

 _She really is a sweetheart,_  he thought as she told him about getting her job back and turning down Labayda's office.  _Why shouldn't I give it a shot?_

Sure, he didn't feel a spark with her like he had with Lassie, or even how he had when he first met Jules, but maybe he had been too preoccupied to have given it a proper chance. It wasn't  _her_  fault that he was coming off a torrid sort-of romance, after all. And if he really was going to get on with his life, wasn't she the perfect opportunity?

It wasn't like she was to blame for the fact that Shawn wasn't going to get to ride a dolphin, either, though he  _had_  kind of been hoping she would be his in on the matter.

As she spoke, the psychic stood nervously, hands in his pockets, still unsure as to whether he was making the right decision. He knew he'd never know for sure until he made it, but that didn't make it feel any less like diving off a cliff, blindfolded and butt-naked.

"How 'bout dinner?" he asked her, taking the plunge. "You and me. A very dark restaurant. I'll bring some candles in case it's too dark; that's something I like to do."

She smiled. "Listen, Shawn. Um, I really would love to - "

"Sweet," he breathed - a sigh of relief as he felt the weight fall off his chest at her response.

"- but I don't want to get in the way."

_Huh? What?_

"Get in the way?" he asked, obtusely, wracking his brain for what she could possibly be talking about.

"Yeah," April said, a sad smile on her face. "I like her -"

Perplexed, the pseudo-psychic tilted his head back.

"- and I think you two will get there. So," she said, turning towards the door, "thanks for everything."

He shook his head, flabbergasted. Did she mean...  _Jules_?

No. No way she meant Jules.

He and Jules were just buddies.

Friends.

Slightly flirty bromigos.

She must be mistaken.

"Wha- what does that even mean?"

April grinned at him like she knew something that he didn't.

What the hell had he missed?!

"Good luck, Shawn," she said, eyes sparkling mischievously as she left.

Shawn simply stood there, jaw on the floor, stomach twisting in knots.

 _She couldn't mean…_ he thought, trying to figure out the odds of him catching the eye of not one, but two sexy detectives.

… _could she?_

No. Not Jules.

There was just no way.


	4. I'm Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing  
> ** The accompanying song is I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins 
> 
> Carlton finds his world turned upside down when accused of killing the second-in-command of the Cinco Reyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.
> 
>  
> 
> *For PsychLassieFan4Ever <3

 

* * *

 

Carlton felt like he was on top of the world.

Had it not been for the rat bastard slipping out of his grasp and under his radar, much to Carlton's displeasure, he would have caught Chavez years ago. But now – now he had bagged the motherfucker. And it didn't matter whether it was skill, luck, or a generous helping of both that had him cuffing the hardened criminal and hauling him back to the station for booking because the second-in-command of the Cinco Reyes was on his way to lock-up and that was the only thing that mattered.

Carlton would take what he could get and enjoy the feeling while it lasted.

Getting scum like this ass-hole off the street provided him with a natural high and Carlton had found through his many years on the force that the badder the guy, the better he felt post-bust. To him, pushing Chavez through the doors of the precinct and walking the man through a gauntlet of armed and awestruck officers was almost a religious experience.

He felt smart. Powerful. Confident. Things he hadn't felt in far too long.

He was sure of himself, too – something he hadn't felt in even longer.

 _About damn time,_ he thought, pushing Chavez through the crowd of onlookers.

Steering the gang-banger past his brothers in blue, Carlton felt his pride surge at the obvious admiration, McNab looking what could only be described as agog. The cop next to him – Drimmer, Carlton thought his name was – not so much. But that was to be expected. Some of the Gang Unit guys had been ribbing him over the Rocinante case and now he'd just walked in with what should have been one of their collars, sure his success where they had failed was guaranteed to shut them up. Of course, Drimmer and his pals was pissed – Carlton just did their jobs for them. And he couldn't wait to rub their noses in it, his hatred for those assholes and the fact that they thought they were better than him the driving force behind his strut.

He felt Spencer's eyes on him as he entered the hall, the psychic's gaze searing into him through his jacket, two layers of shirt, his inflated ego and his Fort Knox level defenses, and Carlton struggled to keep his composure, something twitching inside his chest.  _Spencer_. The man was like a one-jerk-infestation with his eyes glued to the detective whenever they crossed paths, yet, even after all they'd gone through together, Carlton found himself far less annoyed by it than he had been before.

Which, of course, was an annoyance in itself.

The lights flickered as he handed Chavez over to the booking officers, the torrential downpour raining havoc as well as water all over their electrical system, leaving Carlton thankful that they'd made it through the storm okay, knowing that it hadn't been guaranteed. Between barely being able to see an inch in front of his face and having an angry Mexican spewing epithets in his backseat, he'd had to rely on all his Precision Driver's Training just to get them there in one piece, having barely managed to do so at that. It had been like trying to maneuver a Crown Vic down a kiddie pool waterslide and he wasn't looking forward to ever having to do it again.

Still, he was a little proud of himself, and as he tossed the keys to Andrews with a smile on his face, the lights flickered back on.

"Book him," he said, reveling in the moment of thunderous applause, turning to look at the crowd of cheering colleagues behind him. These were the same people who had been ready to roast his carcass over an open flame because of his Rocinante failure, yet now they were openly adulating.

_Huh._

The cop smiled wider. It didn't matter that half of them were kissing his ass and full of crap, credit was due where credit was due; he was taking it whether intended or not.

 _This is good,_ he thought, basking in his own awesomeness.  _I can work with this._

Maybe things weren't going to be horrible forever after all.

* * *

It was astonishing how quickly his day could go from spectacular to suicide-inducing, but here Carlton was, seriously considering considering it.

He'd thought being informed that he was losing his case to Agents Douche-bag and Dick-face from the FBI was bad enough, but with his luck, he should have been prepared for things to get worse. It was incredibly on brand for him, after all, things rarely working out as well as they seemed like they were going to, and really, he should have known to expect it. But how does one prepare to get caught standing over a dead body with gun in hand though?

He didn't do it.

Carlton wasn't stupid enough to kill someone who had just turned State's Witness. And even if he was, he  _certainly_  wasn't stupid enough to do so in his own damn precinct. If any of these people had half a brain, they'd see that as well. Sure, he had a temper, but that was his way of letting off steam; he was aggressive, yes, but not violent. Most of these people had worked with him for years and they should know him well enough to understand that by now - although, these _were_ the idiots who thought he'd get along with Goochberg, so there was no telling how far up their asses their heads were. Still...

He yelled so he didn't hit people.

He went to the gun range so no one got shot.

He manhandled Spencer – and  _only_ Spencer– because the man practically begged for it with his words and actions and very existence, constantly thrusting himself in Carlton's face.

If it weren't so damn embarrassing, he'd consider getting in the 'psychic' to tell them how very  _not_ dead he was, even though he had spent years putting Carlton through varying degrees of disconcerting abuse – assaulting him with his roving hands and lying lips and body pressed so tight against Carlton's it was almost sinful. Spencer was still breathing, and if that wasn't proof that he had more control over his temper than Ocampo was giving him credit for, he didn't know what was.

Mind you, Carlton still wasn't sure all  _that_  hadn't just been flirting…

Shortly after finding her, Carlton had discussed his choice of job with Dr. Foster, worried his anger issues were preventing him from being a good cop. She'd told him that based on what she'd seen so far, she wasn't at all surprised that he'd fallen into the profession, informing him that learning to harness his anger would make him better at his chosen work. She'd also said he needed to learn to trust himself more, his instincts good ones that he instead squashed and ignored – a potentially fatal flaw in both his career and his personal life.

Which is why this entire situation had taken him off-guard. He'd had never had any real issues on the force before; with no internal incidences more recent than the Secret Santa Debacle of 2005, his record was clean, or at least clean enough, and this was somehow the first time something he'd mumbled in anger had come back to bite him in the ass. He'd have to be more proactive about avoiding it in the future.

Somehow.

His rage simmering, the Chief asked him what had gone on, and Carlton was a little surprised when she ordered him to answer. He thought it obvious, but he explained anyway, trying to keep as calm as possible. And as a reward for his honesty Carlton received a face full of indignant FBI officials with mouths full of accusations. The insinuation had him seeing red; he knew may be an asshole from time to time, but he wasn't a liar and these asshats from on high coming to question his character pissed him  _right_  off.

 _Fuckwads,_ he thought, clenching his teeth as he allowed himself to be held back, desperately wanting to take a swing that would likely land him in a jail cell.

Thank God the Chief believed him.

Carlton didn't know what he would have done without her support, and though he knew she wasn't about to let it happen, he desperately wished he could help her prove his innocence. She was a good Chief, and Carlton was glad she'd had the 'interim' dropped from her title, much as he still might want her job. He also respected the fact that she was capable of putting her personal feelings toward someone aside in the name of justice.

He just wished that someone wasn't him.

Vick asked for his gun with a sad and stressed look in her eyes, and though he knew she was just following protocol, it hurt him more than he could explain. But, proving he was the good cop he said he was, Carlton begrudgingly handed his weapon over without a fight.

With it gone, anxiety began to take hold and he grit his teeth again, trying to remember how to ground himself against the emotional onslaught he was facing and doing his best to remind himself that lacking his weapon did not mean lacking the security that came with it. He was still as strong and smart and capable as he had been before, and if he just focused on that, things would be okay. Or so he kept repeating like a mantra in his head, his skin tightening and breath quickening against his will. That in mind, he knew he needed to take control of his body before he started spiraling, so lifted his head and focused on the air rushing in and out of his lungs, attempting to steady himself before leaving the room, his shoulders squared as he followed his boss back up the stairs into the madness that was to be this investigation.

_Sweet Lady Justice, what the hell could I have possibly done to deserve this?_

* * *

Carlton came home from the grocers to find his boss, two buffoons, Ocampo and a brigade of blues spilling onto his front lawn. He instantly knew what it meant, but in his heart of hearts he hoped it wasn't true. He hadn't broken yet, dangling off the precipice by the tips of his toes, but if anything would do it, this might be it. Eyes clouding and mind racing, Carlton stood there silently and when Ocampo brushed past him with barely a glance, the hunger that had led him out to do some late afternoon grocery shopping fled, his stomach turning to stone.

Karen approached him, and listening to his superior place him on suspension, Carlton's heart broke.

Even  _if_  they cleared his name –  _if_ , a thing that seemed more and more unlikely with every passing moment – his history would always be marred by the memory of this encounter. He was in hell, and he didn't know whether it was the tarnish on his life's work or the shame from being targeted as their number one suspect that pained him most. It wasn't enough that his name was mud – that everything he had worked so hard for was for naught – but they had to publicly humiliate him by ripping his world out from under him on his doorstep, too.

What a fitting reward for his many years of service.

Carlton had thought that –  _hoped_  that – after so many loyal years he would be granted a modicum of privacy when they tore his life to shreds.

He had apparently thought wrong.

Some detective he was.

But he refused to let it affect him in front of his colleagues, so he blinked back his frustration, wondering if ol' Mrs. McGraw was peeping at the scene from across the road, hiding behind her canary yellow curtains. Far too nosy for her own good, the blue haired biddy could just get bent for all Carlton cared, but the last thing he needed was the news making the neighborhood rounds. He hadn't lived in the area long, but he  _had_  been around enough to know the old women on the block would make his life miserable were they privy to this private information. It was something he'd like to avoid if at all possible, his neighbors already thinking him 'queer' because he didn't keep any 'lady-friends'.

Suddenly, seeing his most recent sexual conquest flounce down his front steps and stare as his life upended, it dawned on Carlton that they weren't exactly wrong.

Wearing equally awkward looks upon their faces, Spencer and Guster flanked the Chief, and the knowledge that the sometimes-consultants had been in his house unsettled him. Sparsely decorated though it was, and though it may not seem that way to anyone else, his home was more than just a residence to him; it was his one true safe space, and as a large part of his meager existence, he felt more than a little violated that they had been there without his consent.

Vick was one thing, of course, both an expected and necessary evil, but Carlton's reasons for never having invited the perceptive bastard and his buddy to his abode were valid ones and as such, he hoped they hadn't been allowed to snoop around on their own. Who knew what hidden depths Spencer could discover from the way he organized his sock drawer, after all? Because while he hated the psychic's fool act, he couldn't deny that the man's sense of deductive reasoning was so sharp you could prick yourself with it. It made him shudder – not even wanting to  _think_  of what the man would or could have picked up on were he allowed free reign.

Instead he stood silently as the Chief requested his badge, a depressed and conflicted look on her face.

Unable to look back, too many feelings rushing through his thin frame, Carlton's gaze shifted to the man behind her left shoulder.

Spencer looked unimpressed, perhaps even upset, and it certainly wasn't the look Carlton had expected to see on the charlatan's face. He didn't know how to process it, not even sure he should, so he filed it away to unpack later, if he wound up unpacking it at all. Discomfited, he went to shift his bag and Guster surprised him by offering assistance. He surprised himself when he accepted, handing the sack over mechanically, his entire body numb save his eyes.

Those began to burn as he battled back tears.

He was  _not_  going to cry in public, god damn it.

Not in front of these people and  _ **certainly**_ not in front of Spencer.

Spencer had already seen him emote too much as it was, and he was tired of being so vulnerable in front of him.

He was stronger than this. Better than this.

Except…

Carlton felt like his entire identity was being cut from his core – his existence unraveled with a single pull of the thread – and he didn't know how to react, what to say, what to do, how to  _feel_. He'd never been at such a loss before, the only thing similar being the dissolution of his marriage, and he pictured himself adrift at sea – his body leaden and his chest crushed, legs struggling not to twitch beneath him as waves of bad news swallowed him whole – and he knew that he knew how to breathe, if only he could remember how.

It was just too much, all at once.

Shawn shifted behind Vick, the pseudo-psychic staring at the ground so he wouldn't have to look him in the face, and Carlton wondered what he could possibly be thinking, why he refused to make eye contact. Did he consider this karmic payback for acting like such a jerk? If he did, would he be wrong? More importantly, how could he have been so lucky as to experience his most emasculating moment in front of the man?

Why did Carlton time and time again seem destined to expose himself to this very individual - his hopes and dreams dashed on the ground in front of him for Spencer to witness, leaving him with nothing but memories of what his life had been and fears of what it would turn into?

He just didn't know. It just didn't make sense.

Oblivious to the thoughts racing through her former Head Detective's mind, Vick took his badge, opening her mouth to find she had nothing to say. She quickly closed it, wisely choosing to walk away and Gus handed Carlton back his groceries, wordlessly following suit. Shawn stayed, and it was obvious to Carlton that his friend didn't want to be a part of what was to follow, whatever that may be.

Carlton wasn't sure he did, either.

After a moment of silent staring, Spencer shifted in place, taking a breath and opening his mouth to speak before Carlton could beat a hasty retreat. He looked at the psychic and the psychic looked back at him and he was surprised to see sorrow – not pity, but honest to god sorrow – in those stunning hazel eyes, with no idea why it was there nor whether he deserved the reaction, having treated the man as horribly as he had. He couldn't tell what the consultant was thinking, but it was that look that kept him from running, needing to hear it even if it was the worst possible thing.

 _What? What now?_  he thought, expecting the worst and already self-castigating. _I'm down and ready for the kicking, Spencer. Just give it to me already._

Shawn looked back at him warmly, shooting Carlton a soft smile before departing.

"I know you didn't do this buddy," he said, "and I'm going to do everything I can to prove it. I promise."

Floored, the detective stood there, mind reeling as he tried to piece things together.

_Oh._

Spencer didn't hate him. He wasn't taking the mickey out of him or telling him this was the work of the almighty karma chameleon or pointing and laughing or any of the things Carlton had expected and had steeled himself for.

Shawn was there, and he wanted to help.

He wanted to help, and he  _believed_  in Carlton, even after everything.

_That…_

Changed everything.

* * *

Groceries in hand, Carlton stood in his doorway, glancing at the officer posted at the door and dismayed at the disarray only he would notice.

Though his colleagues had done their best to be respectful of his things, over a decade on the force had taught him to spot the discrepancies in seconds and he frowned as he entered the room, wondering what the warrant had covered. He hadn't asked, the news of his suspension leaving him too despondent to remember that he even should, and he knew he'd have to talk to Vick about it later, if only he could convince himself to show his face at the precinct.

Maybe a phone call would suffice.

Putting his purchases away on auto-pilot, he tried and failed to numb his racing thoughts, doing his best to mentally pack his bags, knowing he'd need to find somewhere to stay since his place had just been declared a crime scene. It was stupid, of course – Chavez was killed at the station, so no crime had been committed there, but he was sure Ocampo had put them up to it, the man with an obvious hate-on for the suspended Head Detective. Still, the entire house was a hot button and one that made him long for the past – those halcyon days prior to his having been made aware of his many control issues; days where he wouldn't find himself clutching his counter tight, fending off panic as thoughts of stranger's hands searching through his personal things set him off.

No, not stranger's hands – his colleague's and boss' and…  _Shawn's_ , which made it so much worse.

Were he living in the past, he wouldn't be standing here, shaking, bile rising in his throat. He wouldn't be bordering on tears, every dark whisper in his brain magnified by his mounting anxieties, the voice he'd always tried so hard to stifle having him half-way to hyperventilating.

He wouldn't be –

He wouldn't be –

_**Three fifths of a decanter of Scotch later;** _

Soused, Carlton sat slumped against the door of the seedy motel room he'd sprung for, more miserable than he had been to begin with. As dusk set, it dawned on him that he had forgotten to turn on the light, having been relying on the afternoon sun to illuminate the room. He took another drink and laughed as he realized it, not knowing if he cared enough to rectify the issue, only knowing he couldn't stand a second night in this hole feeling the way he was – the sounds of screaming from the far end combined with raunchy sex from the room next door driving him mad.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought. The room could stay as dark as he felt.

The wood hard against his spine, he shifted in place and reveled in his misery, saddened by the lack of commiseration he received and wondering how much of that was because his colleagues sucked and how much was because he did. Not having friends didn't usually bother him – he was too busy for much of a social life most of the time, or at least that's what he'd been telling himself – but he'd expected something from someone, not even getting a call from O'Hara to express her condolences.

_Fuck those fuckwads, none of them giving a shit…_

Carlton breathed deep and after a moment – reminding himself that his partner had probably been told she  _couldn't_  contact him – pulled himself off the floor and dragged himself over to the thread-bare chair, taking another self-pitying swig from the bottle of scotch he'd bought on the way, emptying the bottom third in a single swallow and grimacing against the burn.

_But Spencer… Spencer cared._

Spencer, who could have kicked him in the shins and run far and fast and been completely justified in doing so…

_He cared._

Carlton groaned in embarrassment, overwhelmed and confused by the plethora of feelings he had for the man and the rush of it all flooding back to him. He had denied the attraction, then acted on it, then lashed out at Shawn for his own stupid actions. Now he was sitting there on suspension, drunk as a skunk with nothing to do but remember, hoping to hell that the man he spent so much of his time devaluing still found value in him.

_God. I'm such an asshole. A grade-A jackass asshole. What the hell is wrong with me?_

He knew he'd treated the other man like dirt. Had known it while he was doing it and still did it anyhow. Carlton had spurned his affections after having returned them, and he'd been cold – colder than cold – to the consultant since. It wasn't fair of him and he knew that, too. Not sure who he was punishing by doing so, he'd kept Shawn at arm's length, terrified he'd do something he would regret if he didn't and feeling like he'd had no other choice. His proximity to the man was a trigger – one far more dangerous than any found on a gun – and so he did his best to stay distant, both physically and emotionally.

It wasn't helping as much as he had hoped, and though he knew he'd have to apologize eventually, now was not the time. He was too busy fending off a stress induced existential crisis now, and any words of apology said wouldn't be meant like they were supposed to be.

So, he didn't apologize. He drank instead.

Carlton hated the lack of control he possessed over his own life, and it was this mess he was in that made him realize he'd had far less control than he'd originally thought, his turgid rigidity having gotten him nowhere. He had grown up doing everything he was supposed to, after all – he'd listened to his mother, read all the right books, taken all the right classes; he thought all the right things, had run with the right crowd, and had become a respectable, responsible Republican…

So, what the hell had happened?!

Drunk and frustrated and unable to wrap his head around what should have been obvious, he sighed, sliding into self-pity mode. He'd thought his life had come crashing down around his ankles when his wife had left him, but that was nothing compared to this. At least back then, he knew who he was. Or, at least, he'd thought he had. Now… now he didn't know anything, his guidebook thrown out the window, his sexuality in question, and his job on the line.

The only thing left to do was laugh, his distress now bordering on hysteria.

Another swallow from the bottle found it dry and he let it tumble from his fingers on to the floor. It didn't break but bounced, and he laughed at that, too. He'd gotten far too drunk far too fast and because the liquor had disarmed his brain's most reticent tendencies, Carlton's sub-conscious was ready and willing to communicate now it finally had the chance.

If only his sub-conscious wasn't such a prick, reminding him of all his failures as both a cop and a man.

He knew he needed to get back on track – that it needed to be his first step, as a matter of fact – but that it would never happen with the situation as out of control as it was. The thought galvanizing him, Carlton struggled to sit up straight, quickly realizing that how he was sitting was the only straight thing about him and that he had no idea how to rectify the issue –  _issues_  – regardless of how much he might want to. The thought left him feeling defeated and slumping for a moment before loosening his tie, he questioned why he'd bothered wearing the damn thing in the first place before concluding that he'd been putting on airs, its necessity brainwashed into him by many years of caring more about what others thought than about what he did.

It had become second nature, and suddenly, his nature something he felt a deep hatred for, that just wouldn't do.

 _How the_ _**hell** _ _can I ever achieve normal if I can't figure out what that means to me?_

Carlton let his head drop between his knees and breathed deep, feeling like he was bordering on an emotional breakdown and aware he needed the kind of help that happened fast but unsure of how to get it. Proud of himself for thinking of his colleagues first, he wished he could reach out to O'Hara or the Chief, but quickly remembered that their hands were tied in a not even remotely kinky manner – not that he'd ever considered either woman that way. That was weird, and gross, even if he had slept with a colleague that one time.

It took him a bit, but he finally came up with an answer after what felt like years of drunken pontification. The conclusion he came to was consternating, and as the idea came to mind, his smile turned into a furrowed frown.

He didn't want to,  _really_  didn't want to, but he had no other choice.

If he couldn't rely on his colleagues, his pride would have to be shoved to the side and replaced with… well, he wasn't quite sure what the feeling was. But if he couldn't get help from them, it left exactly one person for Carlton to turn to.

His mind wandered to the man with the sad hazel eyes – the man who had smiled at him, offering his assistance. Shawn had wanted to help, not once, but twice, even though there had been nothing in it for him, nothing in it at all except for Carlton's happiness.

The detective started, the thought sobering him instantly.

_Nothing but my happiness._

The idea rolled around in his head, slowly accumulating others as pieces of an unseen puzzle fell into place, growing into something much larger.

Something much more profound.

Something somehow intensely esoteric.

Carlton shook it away, not wanting to acknowledge it and hating to admit he required the assistance. Hating to admit he required Shawn in any way, even though he needed him in many.

_I need him._

The thought popped into his head as if it had been summoned there and he flushed, not wanting it to be true. But it had already been validated and it wasn't going to leave.

_I need him._

It was louder the second time, even louder the third, and he stood from his chair, looking at the little mirror above the dresser to see his face determined and pale.

_Dammit, I'm going to have to hire Psych._

His eyes shone bright.

_I need him._


	5. Trust Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing  
> ** The accompanying song is Trust Yourself by Blue Rodeo
> 
> Carlton enlists Psych in his attempt to clear his name and learns some stuff about himself that he hadn't realized in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.
> 
>  
> 
> *For PsychLassieFan4Ever <3

 

* * *

 

Carlton watched in slow motion as the psychic's tongue swirled around the tip of the bright orange confectionery, the sight of the man somehow smirking around it sending a jolt straight to his groin. He was almost certain Spencer was trying to rile him up on purpose, the illicit image guaranteed to elicit a memory of their tryst in the bathroom of not-Tom Blair's Pub - when Shawn proven to Carlton that his tongue was good for more than just mouth-fucking a frozen phallus.

His body still firmly yet awkwardly planted in the Psych office, Carlton's mind was whisked miles away, the grin Shawn wore as he described wanting to lick Carlton like the creme-sicle his current self was fellating flashing before his eyes.

Carlton remembered it like it was just yesterday.

The elation evident on the other man's face when Carlton had acquiesced, ordering him to make good on his years of taunting and finally suck him off.

The way the door handle pressed into his spine as Spencer lowered himself to his knees.

The feeling of Shawn's mouth wrapped around Carlton's cock, his tongue swiping across –

Carlton shook his head, trying to snap out of it and failing.

He felt a blush begin to creep across his face and determined not to let it get the best of him, moved to the other room while doing his best to ignore it – a task that, to his chagrin, was as hard as he was. Though the psychic hadn't actively hit on him since their fight, this blatant display of perversity made Carlton wonder whether Spencer was acting out as some sick form of payback – fucking with him while helping him in order to say god knows what – and how much he deserved it if it was.

Neither Spencer nor Guster seemed to be taking the investigation as seriously as he had hoped, so he was surprised when the Wonder Twins followed from one room to the other, slurping on their sweets as they walked behind him and his burgeoning erection, hid only by the box of evidence he carried. He'd let them know he'd narrowed the list down and walked away, hoping the change of scenery would spur a continuation of case-related conversation, but Spencer continued on with his buffoonery, slapping a hand down on his notepad and declaring Carlton wrong.

The blatant chicanery was starting to wear on him.

It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that Spencer was intelligent, but it was rare the man actually acted like it, constantly hiding his genius behind acts of idiocy and frustrating the cop to no end. While he had no idea how the amateur detective had managed to achieve the solve rate he had, Carlton knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it had nothing to do with being psychic – psychic being a thing he wouldn't believe even with a gun pressed to his temple. Despite this, and as much as he may want to, he couldn't deny that the exuberant consultant produced results – the damn dinosaur being the perfect example of an unsolvable case somehow solved by the fake.

Which is why he shouldn't have been surprised when Shawn surmised that there was more to the cop's memory than he was remembering.

But he was.

Shawn's warm, wet lips wrapped around the flavored ice and Carlton tried not to stare, the distraction making him fail to notice Shawn's hands at his throat as they moved to loosen his tie. Startled by the motion, he protested, not wanting to give up control. As per usual, the psychic just ignored him, sliding the striped silk around Carlton's eyes like a blindfold and knotting it into place, leaving him standing there aroused and feeling like a fool.

He was glad Spencer was helping him – really, he was. He just wished that he didn't have to expose so much of himself for it to happen. Or at least, most of him wished that, a little part deep down inside thrilled at the idea.

Exhaling, Carlton tried to center himself, grateful for Guster's presence acting as a buffer, the man perhaps not quite  _adult_  supervision but supervision nonetheless. The cop was quickly learning that the more vulnerable he was, the stupider he was likely to be, apt to acts of irresponsibility when he felt exposed. And he hadn't felt this exposed in a while, perhaps feeling it more now than he had weeks prior when his pants had been undone.

 _Think first. Act later,_  he told himself. _And remember to breathe, dammit._

Shawn stepped away, removing the stick from his mouth.

"Sensory deprivation. You told me what you saw. Now tell me what you heard."

Hearing the unspoken words asking for his trust, Carlton paused.

A shiver ran down his spine and he wondered if the man really knew what he was asking.

Trust couldn't be taken back once it was given freely, and if he gave it, it meant that he couldn't give it lightly; the simple act once again changing their dynamic. Carlton  _could_  trust Shawn – and really, if there was a time for it, wasn't that time  _now?_  – but doing so would be admitting that he'd had a sliver of faith in the psychic all along, regardless of how little he believed in his abilities.

It was a small thing, but one small thing with them could and would lead into something more, having proven to be the case multiple times already.

Carlton knew he had no choice, though. Things were changing whether he wanted them to or not and the only person willing to help was standing there in front of him, lips lackadaisically sheathing an icy sweet as he ordered Carlton to think outside the box he'd spent his entire career living in.

So.

It was all or nothing.

Now or never.

And if it was never, his life was ruined and he might as well find some heavy traffic to throw himself in.

Unable to fight it any longer, Carlton sighed, resigned to giving in and knowing he'd only be fucking himself if he didn't.

 _Maybe it is time to trust again,_ he thought, shifting uncomfortably beneath Shawn's gaze.

_Even if it is Spencer._

* * *

A perfectly horrible idea, Carlton went with Shawn and Gus to the precinct.

Seeing O'Hara with Drimmer as he sat in the back of the stupid Blueberry flooded him with feelings of inadequacy, the fear of being replaced causing him to break into a cold sweat. He'd thought he had a handle on things, but he was very clearly wrong, the sight of his former partner with his replacement triggering a panic attack the size of Pennsylvania – easily one of the worst he'd experienced in his already anxiety-riddled existence. It made him want to hurl, and only partially due to his distaste for the man who'd replaced him in the first place.

 _Maybe it's karma,_ he thought.

 _Or it's because I'm not good enough,_ he thought.

 _Maybe it's because I'm a right bastard,_ his brain practically screamed _._

Carlton sighed, trying to calm himself, knowing it would do no good.

It just – it was like everything he had worked for was a lie, the realization of such not dawning on him until that very moment. The thought itself was a shock to the system and he gripped the driver's seat headrest tight to combat it, failing when he realized he'd been trapped in a nasty game of existential charades for longer than he'd thought possible.

Perhaps his whole life.

The sting of betrayal was an open-handed slap across the face and Carlton's breath quickened in response, his pulse racing as a wave of claustrophobia rolled over him.

He needed out of the Blueberry and he needed out  _now_.

But Carlton found himself foiled by child safety locks and started to spiral as his world came crashing down around him. He couldn't believe how desperate he was to breathe fresh air – to free himself from his portable prison.

His actions mad and frantic, Carlton scrambled to escape for what seemed like longer than forever, finally unrolling the window and opening the door from the outside, too disassociated to even realize it. To him, it was magic. He'd been in one hell and now, in the blink of an eye, he was in another, free of the car but also all of the things he'd found important in life.

Carlton found that he missed O'Hara.

Not only had he escaped just in time to watch her drive away, he actually  _missed_  her. He never would have expected nor would he admit to it, but Carlton was sharper when she was around.

More personable.

More present.

He liked himself when she was near, her contagious smile infecting even his cantankerous nature.

Now he was alone. Alone and on his way to being forgotten, her smile no longer there to temper his anger.

Standing in the street, his heart sinking in time with the slowly setting sun, Carlton tried his best to figure out how he'd fucked it all up, watching his partner depart while the castigating voices inside his head bled into one.

* * *

The Psych duo found Carlton stretched across a bench on the boulevard in front of their office, semi-despondent, full of self-loathing and oddly, wearing one of Shawn's shirts. Carlton barely acknowledged their arrival, knowing it was not only inevitable but bound to be uncomfortable no matter how he looked at it. But by that point, he almost didn't even care. How could he when it felt like all he had left in the world was the help and stolen clothes of a man who he was beginning to feel for but who – with his luck – probably only pitied him in turn?

_What good am I anymore? What good was I ever?_

Numb, he watched Guster cry over spilled pudding to avoid looking at Spencer, unable to meet the man's inquiring gaze.

"Lassie, what's going on here?" Shawn asked solemnly.

"Well, let's see," Carlton sighed, glancing up and catching the look of concern on the psychic's face. He was surprised by it, but it changed nothing. "My partner's moved on," he muttered, sullen. "My career is in shambles, and even Sweet Lady Justice has abandoned me..."

He paused, knowing there was more he could say but deciding not to.

"Bitch."

There was no way he was telling them the truth.

Carlton had really broken into the Psych office – in broad daylight, no less – to get access to the anxiety medication he had stashed in his overnight bags. He had been prescribed a low dosage by his doctor, just enough to take the edge off and make the things that seemed like they were spinning out of control stop, and at that moment he had never needed things to stop more.

The world around him throbbed and seeking a distraction from it, he'd opened the fridge to peruse while waiting for the medication to take effect, silently mocking the few items he found as a cheap form of entertainment until he spotted what looked to be homemade tapioca pudding on the top shelf.

His ridicule quickly turned into pangs of hunger, the man not quite sure of the last time he'd eaten.

Carlton was certain the pudding came from Guster's kitchen. In fact, it was laughable to assume it would have belonged to anyone  _other_  than the uptight pharmaceuticals rep – not only because 'homemade' had the requirement of being made in one's home, but because Carlton was pretty sure Shawn had never used anything more labor intensive than an Easy Bake oven. So, feeling a little proud of his not-quite masterful deductive reasoning, Carlton had snagged it and smiled - the first smile in what felt like forever.

The realization that he'd been so depressed for so long left Carlton both sad and gobsmacked, and he paused, stolen pudding in hand.

 _Is this really what my life consists of?_  he had asked himself. _Finding joy in stealing food as I attempt to fend off a nervous breakdown in the Psych office?_  

He took a deep breath, thoughts still racing.

_Why is he even helping me? And what the hell was that look on his face back at my place about?_

Carlton put the container on the counter while he thought, head spinning in too many circles for him to multitask, his need for a spoon greater than his greed for the pudding. If he had been in a regular person's office finding the necessary utensil would have been easy. But  _no,_ he had to be standing in the middle of Psych, trying to figure out where the mad-man that ran the place had decided was a rational spot to stash spoons, the obvious location of the cutlery drawer lacking any.

It was odd. Spencer had been a part of Carlton's life for over two years and he still didn't know why the man did _most_ of what he did. He certainly didn't understand the motive behind the psychic's most recent behavior. Helping him was the last thing Shawn should want to be doing. But that failure to understand could be because Carlton couldn't ever imagine reacting that way himself. Which, he realized, said a lot more about him than it did about Spencer.

 _If I had been treated like I treated him,_  he lamented, frustrated with his lack of findings, _I would never speak to me again. Yet, here he is, trying to clear my name._

Carlton shook his head, surrendering to both the idea that the psychic might be the better man and the fact that he was going to have to go spoon-less, having checked three drawers and the sink to no avail.  _Fuck it,_  he thought, grabbing the tapioca off the counter, determined to have it, utensil be damned.  _I'll drink it straight_   _from the fucking container_.

But just like he'd been struggling to wrap his mind around his current situation, he struggled to pop the top of the tapioca, realizing rather quickly that he had misjudged the quality of plastic Gus had purchased just like he'd misjudged Spencer, the lid stuck as tight as an unbreakable alibi.

 _How is it that **Shawn** of all people has been the one there for me most in my lowest moments? _ Carlton had wondered, trying and failing to pry the corner up with his thumb.  _Does he care more than I give him credit for? Is it possible that that sarcastic little bastard thinks he loves me?_

The idea had frightened him enough that his hands grew clammy at the thought. He couldn't remember the last time someone had ever  _truly_  loved him, nor what that meant. Or how it could affect things.

There was one person who could answer the question though, and he made a mental note to ask his ex when he got around to sending her the email his shrink had been pestering him about, aware it was a necessary evil but trying to put the conversation off as long as he could. Foster had been on him every session they'd had in the past month to talk to Victoria, but Carlton hadn't yet. He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. Re-opening that mostly closed door of communication was a big step and finally finding out the truth of things even bigger. It felt like he'd be willingly digging a hole inside himself that might fester if left untreated and, not knowing if treatment was even possible, he wasn't sure it was worth the risk.

In any case, he was also determined not to get his ass kicked by a tub of pudding - another thing he was entirely unprepared for. So, unable to find something to blot his fingers with, Carlton set the container down, wiping his palms on his slacks in preparation for its defeat. It shouldn't be this difficult – neither asking for much needed answers nor opening the damn container – but it was, and Carlton hated himself a little for it. His week had already sucked bad enough without his being beaten by a dessert, after all; he refused to lose this battle, too.

Feeling defeated, Carlton sighed. If he wasn't going to be able to figure out what was going on inside his head, he wished he could at least free his purloined pudding.

One little victory. That's all he needed.

One win, with or without the psychic's help, would mean the absolute world.

He couldn't believe the pudding – a thing he'd hoped would soothe his wounded soul – was proving to be as big of a pain-in-the-ass as Shawn tended to be.

Suddenly, struggling far more than he'd ever admit to, he wondered when the man had ceased to be  _Spencer_  in his mind.

Shawn had always been 'Spencer', straight from the start. He'd gotten entangled in Carlton's work life and then in Carlton's personal life, and if there was one thing the cop could guarantee, it was that he would continue to deny the man his given name until the day he died, just like Spencer denied him his. Or at least that's what he had thought, right up until he had thrust his hands through the psychic's hair and his dick down his throat.

Then _everything_ had changed. But not really, everything having changed long before then.

The psychic... 

 _Spencer_...

Had been Shawn prior to Carlton storming into his doctor's office, denying there was even attraction there.

Had been Shawn by the time McNab interrupted their bathroom rendezvous at not-Tom Blair's.

Hell, he'd stopped being Spencer the second he crawled into Carlton's lap in the car all those weeks ago.

In his heart and in his mind and in his dreams, even if the word never left his mouth.

Shawn. He was Shawn.

 _Even after all this,_  he thought in awe. _He just wants me happy_.

Curious as to whether the pseudo-psychic's constant presence at the precinct had been nothing more than an excuse to spend time with him, Carlton shook his head, the many times he'd found the man there without reason to be suddenly surfacing in his mind. He would never understand why were it the case, but he had smiled at the thought that he was wanted nonetheless.

It was astounding – almost incomprehensible – that a hurricane of human emotion like Shawn Spencer could love a man like him, his opposite in almost every single way.

Carlton was rigid and judgmental and unforgiving, whereas Spencer was flexible and fearless and  _fun_.

Carlton ate justice for breakfast, whereas Spencer gobbled up lawlessness like it was a candy-coated confection.

Carlton stuck to the books, breaking the bad guys down and strangling a confession out of them with the red tape he'd methodically worked his way through. Shawn tore those very same books to shreds, using them as fodder to pack his confetti cannon with, both the man and his disregard for rules exploding all over the place in celebration over closing a case – usually one of Carlton's.

His attraction failed to make sense, the Head Detective unable to figure out why the psychic - so warm and wanton and carefree - would ever want him. Yet, as a man who lived and died by logic, he had to admit the proof was in the pineapple.

Shawn wanted him, and not only wanted him but based on the way he'd been acting as of late was probably falling for him, whether he realized it or not. Falling for him even though he'd been an asshole to him, which said more than words ever could.

It gave him pause for thought, and distracted, Carlton sensed the lid of the container about to finally give.

"Almost there," he grunted softly.

If only he could put just a bit more muscle into it -

_Is it possible I could love him back?_

The question smacked him in the face with the impact of a nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet.

His hand jerked and the top soared through the air, that small spasm the thing that finally set his pudding free. Unprepared, Carlton found his crisp, clean shirt coated in coagulated goo, the lid landing smack-dab in the center of his chest.

 _Great,_ he'd thought, trying to wipe away the mess, knowing the one in his mind would be harder to clean than the one on his clothes.  _Just fucking lovely._

The shirt a lost cause, it didn't take long for him to give up. As he unbuttoned his collar with one hand and reached for his overnight bag with the other, Carlton paused, spotting a blue plaid long-sleeve hanging on the back of a chair. It wasn't like it was a stunning shirt or anything, the long-sleeve not even his usual style, but something in his head

heart

_gut_

told him to put it on instead.

Carlton wasn't normally one to take nor wear things that weren't his, and while he didn't know for  _sure_ that it was Shawn's, the navy plaid looked both likely to belong to the psychic and like it would fit. Logic insisted it was reasonable to want to avoid making more laundry for himself, so Carlton slid out of his own shirt and pushed the thought of the comfort wearing his crush's would bring him aside. Logic was full of it, of course, but he slipped the stolen button-up on with ease nonetheless, surprised at the quality of fabric brushing against his flesh. He didn't really care how he looked but he'd expected Shawn's cheap style to trickle down into equally cheap fabric, though that very clearly wasn't the case. Carlton should have expected as much, though. Spencer was the king of comfort, after all, and would want to be as cozy as he could be, even in clothes that were half a step up from pajamas. And while it _wasn't_ pajamas, the shirt was as reassuring as being wrapped in flannel could be, fitting both his mood and body reasonably well.

It fit him comfortably.

Maybe _too_ comfortably.

The implications attached to that were glaring and shifting in the shirt like it was new skin, he'd shrugged at the thought of them.

New shirt. New skin. New life. New beginnings.

Maybe all of those were the things he needed and this the opportunity to take them – a chance to turn the lemons he'd been handed into lemonade, add a little vodka, and have himself one hell of a housewarming party. Once he got his house back, of course.

Cause the thing was, as much as he didn't want to admit it, Spencer made him feel like he was worth something, even when everything else in his life didn't – the man's assistance in this matter the perfect example of that. He'd had the chance to turn that freely given affection into something more – into something he could experience every day, something he could use keep him on his toes and fuel his fire and make him feel fucking human again – and he'd thrown it all away, too scared to do make a move and letting fear dictate his reality.

As Carlton finished buttoning the top button of the stolen shirt, he lamented the pilfered pudding he'd dropped on the floor in shock and adjusted his collar and inhaled, wondering how the hell he was going to fix his life as he relished in the soft scent of musk and pineapple.

* * *

Carlton lay on Henry's couch, staring into nothingness.

He'd been there for hours and hadn't moved in equally as long, Henry finally walking by and shutting the TV off about thirty minutes prior, the man tired of the back to back to back to back COPS Carlton hadn't even really been watching anyhow. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but Carlton found himself so overwhelmed by his emotions over the last half day that he felt anesthetized to the world. It like he was slipping into an existential crisis with no way back out of the void and all he could do was stare at the blank screen and try not to lose his ever-loving mind.

Out of the blue, his phone went off in front of him.

_Bad Boys, Bad Boys, whatcha gonna do?_

It was Spencer's ring-tone. He'd stolen Carlton's phone months and months ago, selecting it for himself as he programmed his number into the cell. Carlton had swatted at him, then scowled at the $1.99 price-tag attached to the tune, muttering something about being paid back and knowing he was never going to be. For some reason though – probably his subconscious speaking to his unexpected attraction – Carlton had left it like that, the sounds of Inner Circle filling the room long after the show that had used it as its theme had left the screen.

Carlton grabbed his Blackberry, unsure of how he was going to answer but knowing he needed to. Was this a sign he should say something to the psychic about how he felt? But how the hell could he do that when he wasn't sure of what he felt, himself?

_Whatcha gonna do when we come for you?_

He knew it was Shawn, but the name still took a moment to register, sorrow having settled deep enough that his brain had nearly disconnected from his body, cognitive dissonance running the show.

Seeing it was a text message, he opened it on autopilot.

_**Break in the case, meet me at your apartment – Spencer** _

The cop sat up. Something was off.

_This isn't Spencerspeak..._

Carlton had been sent many an irritating text message from Shawn before and his spidey-sense was tingling with this one; something was very much wrong.

There was no innuendo. No stupid smiley face. And for some reason, he had signed it Spencer.

Shawn never signed his texts, and when he did sign anything, if it wasn't with his given name it was with something ridiculously stupid, like The Splendiferous Psych Man, The Super Psych-er, or – Carlton's personal favorite – Chief Master Sergeant Sexybottom. Shawn never signed texts, and he was never serious if he could help it, and he certainly wouldn't be typing when he could be calling, the man taking a near twisted delight in aggravating Carlton over the phone.

 _Besides,_  he mused,  _I wouldn't think you could get him to spell properly if you had a gun to his head._

He froze, the thought sticking.

The image of Shawn on his knees with a gun to his head flooding his senses.

The feeling of a loss he might not have to endure if he moved his ass fast enough out the door overwhelming him.

_Shit._

Grabbing his keys off the dining room table, Carlton booked it out of the house Shawn had grown up in, not for a second thinking to let Henry know what was happening or even call out for backup.

His thoughts were too erratic. His pulse beating too fast.

He couldn't lose Shawn now.

He hadn't even figured out what they had yet.

Shawn still had to yell at him for being a bastard.

He still had to help him clear his name.

And more importantly…

Carlton still had to say he was sorry, the need to apologize nearly suffocating him.

Before he even knew it, the suspended cop was in his car, and tires squealing as he peeled out into the night, he prayed to a God he hadn't talked to since he was a child that everything would turn out alright, a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he drove.

Shawn would be okay.

He just had to be.


End file.
